


Gates of Paradise

by grumblebee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Courtship, Dirty Dreams, Hurt/Comfort, Lovesick Crowley, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Public Sex, Seduction, Tuscan getaways, Voyeurism, art history wet dream, early italian renaissance, interracting with historical figures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee
Summary: Nursing a broken heart after a slight misunderstanding, Crowley finds himself in 15th century Florence just in time for the budding Renaissance. Targeting the wealthy Medici family for temptation, Crowley seeks to use their fortune to fund hedonistic art. Aziraphale, however, wants quite the opposite. Unable to both walk away from this job, Crowley and Aziraphale do a fantastic job muddying up the whole Renaissance, while still fighting the unspoken tension between them.





	1. Chapter 1

All stories have beginnings. Some are born out of light. Others await the turning of a new chapter. The opening lines are crucial. Miss your mark and your audience closes the book and moves on to something better. This story, as Crowley realized, begins rather disappointingly.

* * *

_Reims, France, 1345_

The chair was empty. _Empty._ Smack dab in the middle of the front row, if you could even call it that. There were only eight chairs placed out, seven of them filled by the noble family who owned the vast estate Crowley stood on. The rest of their small court stood off to the side, their attention fixed squarely on the choir singing. Sweet voices, damn near _angelic voices,_ spilled from their lips and returned from the stone walls like a ghostly echo and _he hadn’t even shown up._

Crowley gnawed on his thumbnail, thankful for the privacy his dark tinted glasses granted him. Were his eyes not already vibrant crimson and gold, they would have been bloodshot from crying. Of course, his tears were not the only ones in the room. The audience was moved by the sweet ballad, hands pressed to their lips or their hearts as the choir sang. But its muse was not here.

Its muse had left an _empty chair_ .

“Monsieur Crowley”

Crowley straightened up, turning to see the thin face of the tool he was influencing—the composer Guillaume de Machaut. He looked thoroughly pleased with himself, and why shouldn’t he? He’d composed one of the loveliest ballads Europe has ever seen. His compositions would be learned for centuries. Crowley grunted, waving a hand for him to hurry up and get on with it.

“I cannot thank you enough—“

Crowley’s hand shot up, covering Machaut’s mouth quickly.

“ _Don’t._ “ he hissed, before letting his palm soften and drag down Machaut’s shocked features. “Don’t thank me for your work. It’s a...lovely ballad. Bit saccharine for me but a hit with the ladies.”

Crowley’s hand returned to his side just in time for the last note to fade, giving Machaut only a moment to recollect himself. It was better this way. Last thing Crowley needed was his name attached to something like this. Some sorts might think he’d gone soft. Crowley turned on his heel, narrowly avoiding the halo of love and adoration being bestowed upon Machaut and his work. It made his stomach turn.

“Enjoy your party.”

* * *

The night was cold and damp, but it didn’t stop Crowley from stomping his way up the narrow muddy path. Reims was dreadful this time of year. Freezing rain, long dark nights that haven’t seen a rosy dawn in months. It was hard to believe he’d sunk the better part of a century here. Crowley shuddered, shoving his hands into his pockets; all the while replaying a conversation in his head.

_“It’s done then?” Crowley asked. He stepped lightly, not entirely sure where the consecrated ground of the cathedral began. Aziraphale stood beside him, beaming._

_“Last stone laid this week and the windows are magnificent. Truly a beauty.”  
_

_Crowley hummed, swaying slightly as he took it all in. “Has it got a name?”  
_

_“Notre Dame de Reims”  
_

_It came out soft, a little clunky from Aziraphale’s lips. Precious thing, Crowley thought, he’s still getting used to French. Crowley fought hard to hide the smile tugging at his lips, replacing it with a mumbly little huff.  
_

_“So...mmm....there’s a concert I think you’d like.”_

_“Oh?”  
_

_“Machaut. I’ll save you a seat.”_

_Aziraphale smiled sweetly._

_“Only if it’s no trouble.”_

Crowley kicked at the road, sending globs of half frozen mud flying in all directions. Perhaps he had misread the situation, and Aziraphale was just too nice to decline. After all, they’d only had two or three meals together since the 7th century. Perhaps the idea of sitting through a concert was a little too much. Too forward. And yet….

_“Machaut is lovely, isn’t he? Such a way with harmonies.”_

The old cottage lay silent, within shouting distance from the farmhouse Aziraphale had pointed out to him not so long ago (something about them having the creamiest butter). It was a small, round structure, with stone walls creeping with ivy. It was just the kind of cozy nook Aziraphale loved. Yet as Crowley approached he noticed no candlelight in the window--that ruled out that Aziraphale had missed the concert in a book-fueled frenzy. Asleep? Not that he needed it, but he did have a penchant for human necessities. Food, drink, the occasional nap. He once said it helped him understand. Helped him love and appreciate the people he protected. Crowley found it rather sweet, in a mind numbingly stupid way. The locked door opened with a meaningful--if not a little miraculous--twist, one that Crowley hoped Aziraphale will forgive. That hope was dashed when he saw the state of the place. The cottage was bare; not a spare book or drop of ink to prove Aziraphale was even there. It was cold and empty, not at all the warm inviting abode the angel turned it into.

“Who goes there?!”

“A friend of Azra.” Crowley said, turning. The man in question was the farmer who owned the cottage, obviously startled by the sight of a man sneaking onto his property. The man relaxed visibly.

“Monsieur Crowley, I’m sorry I didn’t expect you’d be visiting. Monsieur Fell left this morning.”

Crowley felt his heart drop into his stomach.

“What? Where?”

* * *

_Florence, 1446_

“It costs fifty florins, Crowley, I can’t abide by that.”

The man in question was part of the signoria, and a stingy one at that. He’d been corrupted several years ago and it fell to Crowley to stoke the fire of his corruption. Crowley’s patience wore dangerously thin as he watched the man swirl his wine.

“It costs you fifty now, and you will reap over six hundred florins by year’s end. Have patience.” he growled. The man hemmed and hawed, still hesitant.

“I was planning to take my wife to Venice to buy a home. I cannot afford to put it off again---”

“Spend fifty now, and make enough to buy a home on the Grand Canal.” The man can’t possibly be that daft. He’d jumped into bed so willingly with evil before, what’s one step further? “What’s the problem? Don’t like the water?”

“The Medici, Crowley.” the man said curtly. “I am uncomfortable undermining their business. They bank for the Pope, it...it would be like stealing money from God.”

 _Yes_ , Crowley thought ruefully, _that’s exactly the point._

“You’re not dipping your hand into the collection plate, signore.” Crowley lied. “You’re just doing business.”

Thick silence settled between them, and Crowley feared he had reached a dead end. He tutted, and rose from the table.

“Fifty florins. Mull it over.”

Crowley exited the small study, bidding farewell to a few passing servants whom he had tempted to pick the pockets of their corrupt-yet-stingy master. This man was a good find, but not one worth wasting time on. Florence was a hotbed of activity as of late. War with Milan, trade with Venice and the kingdoms above the Italian Peninsula, and the city had expanded rapidly. For a demon like Crowley it was teeming with new opportunity. One just had to know the proper players, and the city would soon be his.

“Medici” Crowley sighed. “Alright then.”

It was a name he’d encountered a few times. The Medici had fixed themselves as the unofficial-official authority of Florence. Though they _technically_ held no noble or royal title, the city bent easily to their whims. In the years Crowley had been skulking around he’d seen the influx of artisans and craftsmen they employed, all highly skilled. It was a family transforming Florence, which made them the perfect friends.

Finding them wouldn’t be hard. The Medici were in the final stages of constructing a new palazzo in Florence, and had already moved into completed wings of the home.Crowley skipped over a loose cobblestone, too busy staring at the façade of the building to pay attention to his feet. Three stories tall, rusticated stone, _prideful._ No one pious built a home like this. But it didn’t stop them from trying.

The sound of bells filled the air, and Crowley growled as he swept his gaze over the streets looking for the source of his problems; a cathedral… _and_ a basilica? Supported by Medici money, no doubt. Crowley would just have to work around that, and put their money to better use. But first, he needed an in.

“You” Crowley said, his hand stopping a young servant boy who was carrying a large trunk. “Is the master Medici home?”

The boy struggled with the trunk, it’s fine leather casing emblazoned with palle. “No, signore. Master Medici is out preparing for the party tonight.” A party; no place better for a taste of temptation.

“I’m a guest of your master, though I’m afraid I’ve arrived too early. What time is appropriate for me to arrive this evening?” Crowley asked, producing a florin for the boy. He let it flint between his fingers before placing it in the boy’s already outstretched palm.

“Eight, signore. Should I tell him if your arrival?”

“Tell him Signor Crowley has come to pay a visit, I’m eager to meet with him.”

* * *

The thing about demonic intervention is that no _real_ summoning was needed. The odd person did call upon demonic forces, often fueled by greed or desperation, but most demonic temptations happened quite casually. Speak his name, even through the lips of a servant boy, and his powers begin to grow.

Crowley ran his hand down the front of his black doublet, checking himself over in the mirror. The fashion of the time was quite flattering, especially in black. Dark grey hose on his legs outlined Crowley’s long slender legs, leading the eye up to the soft fall of pleats at his mid thigh. The long billowing sleeves of his black cioppa embroidered with silver serpents. They wound up and down his arms, tangling into knots and shimmering softly in the candlelight. Crowley hummed, and slipped a matching silver ring onto his finger, savoring the weight of it. It was hefty, making each wave of his hand trace invisible shapes in the air.

Of all the sins humanity indulged in, vanity was one Crowley was most appreciative of. Something about watching yourself in the mirror, examining the way the ends of your hair curled perfectly, as if trying to recreate a halo that was never meant to be—-it was brilliant. A divine spectacle.

“Ciao, handsome.” Crowley clipped, blowing himself a quick kiss in the mirror to break the odd feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach. No time for that now.

The Palazzo Medici was bursting with life. Candles sat in every window, pouring light out onto the dark street below. It shimmered like an ocean, each ripple caused by the pleasant evening breeze or passing of a jubilant guest. The soft sound of flutes filled the air, greeting Crowley long before he reached the large heavy door of the Medici home.

“Signor Crowley,” an attendant said, opening the door before Crowley’s knuckles even brushed for a second knock, “Master Medici has been expecting you.” See? Too easy.

Crowley entered, thanking the man with a coin before heading in. The whole place looked rather promising. Right off the bat Crowley could point out any number of sins. To start, the whole place stank of usury—that was certain. No wonder the Medici were so eager to throw their money at the church. Crowley adjusted his dark glasses, his unseen eyes surveying the guests. Drunkenness, debauchery. The night had only begun but he was already seeing touches between couples going from friendly to familiar, and within the next hour fornication. All those lavish clothes left on some floor, or hiked up around waists as they spent the night fucking...what a time to be alive.

Unlike other demons, who lacked a certain imaginative element, Crowley most enjoyed mingling at a party. Social situations were delicate, and a light touch was needed. While Crowley waited to meet with the Medici, there were dozens of other souls to tempt. Nothing big, there wasn’t the time. No, Crowley thought of this as the thirty second special; give him thirty seconds, and he’ll give you eternity. A glass of wine refilled here. A dropped purse there. A hand placed suggestively low. Small, subtle things that when combined with wine leave the mind, not to be spoken or pardoned at weekly confession.

It was at this moment, whilst Crowley was miracling a young man’s cup to refill, that he spotted it. A flash of white amongst the crowd. Surely, it couldn’t be? Crowley craned his neck, his gaze landing upon a familiar yet aching sight.

It was Aziraphale.

No matter how many times their paths had crossed it never failed to take Crowley’s breath away. Aziraphale had a way about him, a sort of internal glow that wasn’t entirely due to his divinity. He was kind—kind in a way most angels were not. He did not command the room, but rather observed, occasionally reaching out to the straggling wallflower or heartbroken youth. Soft, approachable, so very trusting. Worries melted around him. Crowley’s certainly did. One glimpse, and the last of the sting he’d carried these past hundred years dissolved. All the heartache and repercussions meant so little, as they did every time they met, now and for the last several thousand years.

“ _Woah!!”_

Crowley turned, realizing stupidly that he was still filling the cup, which now overflowed over the youth’s hand and onto the floor.

“Oh _shit”_ Crowley hissed, quickly stopping the flow before it became a bigger mess than it was. The scene caused quite a stir, guests looking on tipsily at the youth who was now wiping his hands on his sleeves. Crowley should know better than that. That was good wine.

“Crowley?”

Crowley’s heart skipped a beat.

“Aziraphale, it’s been a while” Crowley said, his mouth suddenly dry. If the fashion of the times suited himself, it most definitely flattered Aziraphale. Soft cream colored doublet, with sleeves so long that the whole of his figure was like one pleated cloud. It barely skimmed his figure, swishing about gayly with his every move. Nothing at all like the fitted ensemble Crowley wore, but alluring all the same. His cheeks were tinted pink, and Crowley was tickled by the idea that Aziraphale had come just for the wine and food. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“It has, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale said,his soft lips pursing to count the years. “It’s got to be...I mean it’s been maybe a few decades?”

“A century, roughly.” Crowley responded. It didn’t come out cold or cruel, but Aziraphale’s fine features crumpled a touch. His sparkling eyes had gone all soft and dewy, it positively pulled at Crowley’s heartstrings.

“Crowley, I..” Aziraphale breathed “I’m terribly embarrassed over how I left.”

“ _You’re_ embarrassed?”

The angel fiddled with his cup, obviously uncomfortable, and all of a sudden the room was too hot and crowded for Crowley to bear. He reached out, taking Aziraphale by the arm to guide him.

“Let’s get some air.”

* * *

The courtyard was much quieter, much _darker_ than the party they had left. Crowley figured Aziraphale preferred they speak this way, hidden away in the darkness where he could hide their friendship. Crowley didn’t blame him, he had a lot to lose. The angel set his cup down on a stone ledge, looking up at the night sky.

“I owe you an apology...for Reims.”

“None necessary, angel. You’ve obviously been busy.”

“Not because I _wanted_ to—“ Aziraphale huffed. “I planned on staying in Reims a little longer, but I was reassigned. Gabriel told me it was urgent, and then sent me to a chapel here in the countryside to overlook some frescoes. The assignments just kept coming, and with every year goes by I feel terribly guilty.”

Not just guilty, Crowley sensed, lonely. Aziraphale _missed_ him. Crowley made a low sound, a couple of misplaced mumbles before finding his voice.

“We’ve gone long stints before and it’s never been an issue. Head office shirked us both this time. What’s a hundred years between friends.”

Aziraphale exhaled a trembly little breath. “You’re too kind to me, Crowley.”

“Don’t go saying that too loudly. I’ll have to be mean.” Crowley warned, his eyes darting to the star studded night sky. “I’ll….knock your plate right out of your hands and ruin that nice frock of yours.”

Aziraphale spun round, “You wouldn’t!”

“Most certainly would. Right down the front so people think you’re clumsy.” Crowley said, flicking the front of the angel’s doublet with his finger. Aziraphale crossed his arms defiantly.

“I’d just miracle it away, you know that.”

Crowley pouted, his finger tracing some unseen stain down the center of Aziraphale’s chest, the big heavy ring gleaming in the moonlight. It caught Aziraphale's eye in a captivating way, drawing his gaze down inch by inch. “Yes, but we’d always know it was there, wouldn’t we? Underneath?” Beneath his fingers he could feel the angel stiffen.

“W-well, yes, I suppose—“

Crowley took his hand away, “Told you I’m not nice”. He grabbed Aziraphale’s half empty cup and downed it, relishing in the faux outrage of his friend.

“ _Fiend_!”

“I’ll get you another.” Crowley said, motioning Aziraphale to follow him back to the party. Except, Azirapahle wasn’t following. He was rather busy at the moment. His soulful eyes had gone white with a glow Crowley used to know so well. “Fuck’s sake, can’t you enjoy a party without new instructions?”

Aziraphale raised a finger in a silent _just a moment_. Crowley waited, watching as Aziraphale listened to whatever divine nonsense was being hurtled his way. At the same time, his own stomach was turning over like a stormy sea.

Instructions of his own. Unlike Aziraphale, his instructions were a lot more gut wrenching.

Crowley keeled over, gagging and retching into the a planter as a thick black sludge made its way up his throat. It coated his mouth and poured out like tar onto the stone floor below. It brought tears to his eyes, his whole body convulsing as he tasted—yes _tasted_ —- Hell’s newest task for him. Beside him Aziraphale gasped.

“Heavens, are you alright?”

Crowley waved him off, his other hand roughly wiping the hell tar from his lips. “M’fine, just received instructions.” Aziraphale looked on with concern.

“They’re not all like this, are they? Every instruction?”

“No” Crowley croaked, the taste now turning into a sulfurous mess, “I’m on a...probation of sorts.” He stood up, spitting the last of it into a handkerchief he produced from thin air.

“What on earth did you do?”

 _I wrote a love ballad_ , Crowley thought

“Dabbled with lust. Backfired and a whole bunch of people were happily married. Honest mistake, really.” Crowley said. He tucked the handkerchief away, offering his arm once more to Aziraphale. “It’s nothing a glass of wine won’t fix”

Aziraphale sighed, hesitantly linking arms with Crowley as they headed back toward the party.

“Will I be seeing you around,” Crowley asked, slowing his pace to make the walk last just a moment longer “Or does heaven need you elsewhere?” The angel on his arm squeezed just a bit tighter, his pace slowing to match.

“Not for the foreseeable future. You?”

“Likewise.” 

* * *

It was like they had never parted. Two glasses of wine and a few bites later, Aziraphale was back to his warm, joyful self. He beamed as they recapped their last hundred years, laughing over their share of capers. Crowley especially welcomed the hand that came to rest on his knee.

“So the paint keeps drying too quickly. It’s going to be all marked up by lines and you can see where it dried, a whole mess. And there I am, bowl of water in hand, blowing on it to make the room humid—-“

“ _No”_

“ _Yes!_ Yes, and it did turn out lovely, but I’ll never do that again.” Aziraphale laughed, his hand squeezing Crowley’s knee. How he missed that full bodied laugh. Crowley returned the touch, his hand wrapping around the back of the plush bench to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“They’ve put you through the ringer this last century, haven’t they. Lots of art. What’s that about?”

Aziraphale hummed, the truth too juicy to keep to himself. He leaned close, and Crowley caught a whiff of the sweet wine on his breath.

“A _Renaissance_ is coming.”

Crowley’s face twisted with confusion. “A renaissance? This isn’t going to be like the rainbow debacle, is it, because I thought She was done with that—“

“No, no! A Renaissance, a _rebirth._ Culturally speaking.” Aziraphale sipped his wine coyly. “Those lovely Greco-Roman aesthetics we love are coming back.” Crowley’s eyebrows shot up.

“ _Oh._ So _now_ God likes the style. Wasn’t so fond of it when She had to compete with Pagan gods…jealous God indeed.”

Aziraphale ruffled. “It wasn’t _just_ that. There were, you know, _persecutions…_ ”

“She’s made up for that plenty in crusades.” Crowley clipped. “But I won’t bother going on about it, I know what you’re going to say.”

“It’s ineffable.”

“It’s retro.” Crowley said, motioning to the art along the walls, all looking much more naturalistic than the international Gothic style. “All of it”.

The two sat in a shared silence, their minds wandering back to Rome in all its splendor. Surely it couldn’t all come back, but Crowley hoped it would. He sighed, swirling his wine pensively.

“Think they’ll bring back the baths?” He mused. Aziraphale turned completely pink (to Crowley’s delight). The Roman baths were a little less than holy, at lease in the Christian sense, something Crowley sorely missed.

“Not sure how culturally significant the baths were...religiously.” Aziraphale whispered as if scared of being overheard. “But a long soak would be nice.”

Crowley turned, a fiery curiosity stoking in his belly. “ _You?!_ Did you go into the _Roman baths_ —“ he mouthed the last words silently. Aziraphale put his hands up, stopping the words from being said aloud.

“Yes, _yes._ Just once.” He said. Crowley smirked, his silence beckoning Aziraphale to speak. “I was working a minor healing miracle, and the man visited the baths frequently.Nothing... _happened…_ at least not to me. It was a communal bath; a very therapeutic and welcoming environment. Nothing more.”

Crowley plucked at the sleeve of Aziraphale’s robe, dropping his voice low so that the angel was forced to lean in.

“You mean to tell me that _you_ , Aziraphale, Principality, Guard of the Eastern Gate, stripped down to the skin to perform a minor healing miracle in a Roman bath?” He asked smoothly. Aziraphale flushed a bright red, almost matching the wine he now raised to his lips.

“Purely custom” he mumbled.

“ _Aziraphale!”_ Crowley tutted. “Surprised we didn’t run into one another. I did a lot of my business in the baths.”

“And what debauchery would that be.”

“Finding men for the Cult of Bacchus.” He said wryly. “The orgy part was nice, but I’d always skip out before they tore the man limb from limb.”

Aziraphale’s face screwed up, poised to share a stern word or two about the Cult of Bacchus when a voice interrupted.

“Signor Crowley.”

They looked up in tandem, seeing the same attendant from the door.

“Master Medici would like to meet you.”

* * *

Cosimo de Medici sat in a chair beside a small table in the corner. He was an older man, old enough to have his adult son hover nearby—eager to be included in family business.

“Signor Crowley, I presume?” He asked. Crowley extended his hand.

“At your service, Signor Medici.”

Cosimo took his hand, whilst Aziraphale cleared his throat. Cosimo looked to him, recognition lighting up his features. “And Signor Fell. Happy to meet you once more.” Crowley glanced sideways, catching a knowing smirk on Aziraphale’s lips. So that’s why all this money was poured into the church. Cheeky bastard.

“I won’t trouble you long, Signore.” Crowley said, all too aware of how hard his job was with an angel breathing down his neck. Aziraphale knew it too. Best to keep it brief, make up for it on a more private occasion. “I’ve recently come to Florence and I know of some very talented craftsmen who could help you in your patronage. I hear you employ only the best.”

Cosimo nodded. “There is still much to do. I can arrange to meet you and discuss this further after the party. But first…” he turned, motioning for his son to step forward. “This is my son Piero. You may also be dealing with him.” Piero took their hands, shaking it firmly.

“Piero, I’ve heard much about you.” Aziraphale gushed, both hands firmly used to shake Piero’s. “I’ve heard you recently got married. Is your lovely wife here as well?”

“Yes she is.” Piero looked around, catching the eye of a slender woman. “Lucrezia, will you come meet our guests?”

Crowley eyed the woman as she approached. A fine young woman, albeit a little shy. She walked over like a cautious kitten, and stood beside her husband. Aziraphale beamed that soft, ethereal smile.

“I can tell you two are very much in love. Any talk of family?”

It took every fiber of his being for Crowley to not pull a face.

“Not yet. But we are trying.” Lucrezia said, a blush on her cheeks. Aziraphale took her hands gently.

“It will come. And let’s hope he has the same love of art as his father and grandfather before him.” Aziraphale shook both their hands, and Crowley was eager to send them off.

“Yes, yes. Happy and joyous, with a face only a mother could love.” Crowley said, shaking Lucrezia’s hands, glad to see her go. All that love...it did something to him. Made him yearn. He disliked it.

Crowley wiped his hands down the front of his frock, trying to rid himself of the tingle love left in his palms. Aziraphale looked over at him.

“That’s an odd thing to say.” Aziraphale said. “ _With_ _a face only a mother could love._ It’s like you’re expecting him to be ugly.” Crowley shrugged.

“Some children are. It’s not like we’re expecting great things from him.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Not great... _magnificent.”  
_

They paused, turning to one another wide eyed as the realization of what they’d just done—what they’d been _assigned to do_ — sank in.

“Oh **_fuck_** _”  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_ Florence, 1450 _

“My, my, this must be young Lorenzo.” Aziraphale said, leaning over the bassinet to take a closer look at the baby. Lucrezia sat in a nearby chair, just recently over her post-pregnancy confinement, happy as a clam. The next great Medici, Lorenzo, was swaddled up tight, his big soulful eyes looking up at Aziraphale in wonder. Aziraphale returned the look, albeit at a loss for words.

“He certainly is…”   


_ Ugly,  _ Crowley thought.

“...such a happy little boy. Absolutely…”

_ Hideous,  _ Crowley thought,  _ That baby is gross _

“...divine. With such a healthy glow.”   


_ You really want this to work, don’t you, angel? _ Crowley didn’t have to speak it aloud. Aziraphale already knew. Still, it didn’t deter him; the angel stood there a good long while, gently cooing and making faces at the baby down below as Lucrezia gently rocked the bassinet. Crowley cleared his voice.

“We’re so sorry to have dropped by unannounced and taken time away from….” he trailed off, looking at the baby swaddled tight “...this small miracle of yours. Will you please let Cosimo or Piero know we stopped by?”   


“Of course, Signor Crowley. You’re always welcome to visit. As is with you, Signor Fell.” She said, reaching into the bassinet to pick up young Lorenzo. “If you don’t mind my asking, are you in the same business? You come here together rather often—“

“No!  _ Heaven’s no.” _ Aziraphale blurted. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his dark tinted glasses. “Our, uh, business is separate. A whole other field entirely. I can see why you’d draw that concluding what with Florence being so very... _ competitive _ . We were just around at the same time for...for—“   


“Lunch.” Crowley said, saving Aziraphale from the pitiful floundering. The angel let it an audible sigh, his shaky hands smoothing the front of his cioppola. “Come along, Signor Fell, I’m sure you’re famished.” Crowley turned on his heel, making his way out of the chamber and into the large hall of the Medici home. Behind him came a few hasty goodbyes, and then the eager pitter patter of heels. They followed him closely, though Crowley did not stop his pace until they were out in the courtyard, away from prying eyes. He turned, letting Aziraphale catch up and find his thoughts. By the flush on his cheeks he was obviously still flustered.   


“Thank you, Crowley, I—-“ Crowley raised a hand to interrupt.   


“No need, Angel, I know how this looks. Can’t have the locals making assumptions about our business; not when we’re here indefinitely.” Crowley said, glancing around the courtyard casually. Aziraphale did the same, though his eyes seemed to sweep for something other than servants.   


“ _ I agree _ . The task at hand is too great. I’ve been receiving more and more orders lately, and it looks as though I’m the only one posted here.” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Is that so? Heaven left you all by your lonesome?”   


Aziraphale threw him a look equal parts wary and  _ bitch please. _   


“Heaven finds me perfectly capable to handle the city, if that’s what you’re asking.” He turned his head, unwilling to meet Crowley’s critical gaze. Not at all the look of someone who believed it. Crowley took a step forward, coming close enough to ruffle the long trailing sleeves of Aziraphale’s ensemble. The angel turned to face him, already startled by the intrusion of his personal bubble, but more so by the way their noses narrowly missed one another. It was close, unbearably so, and Crowley didn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s gaze softened.   


“That’s not what I asked and you know it.”   


Those pale blue eyes drank him in, lingering from their barely touching noses down to Crowley’s lips, and then back up to his shielded eyes. Aziraphale stared right at him, and Crowley felt just a tad naked...as though he had forgotten his glasses...forgotten everything.   


“I’m hardly alone.” He said carefully. “Not when there are fouls fiends amongst us, tempting us with promises of lunch.”   


Crowley laughed, breaking away for air. “I wouldn’t lie about that. I do have a place in mind.” He reached out a hand, offering to Aziraphale, who looked like the wind was positively knocked from him. “My treat.” Aziraphale wiggled happily.

“If you insist.”

* * *

The tavern was small and dark, perfect for business or pleasure, making it one of Crowley’s favorites. He had feared Aziraphale would snub his nose at it, seeing as the angel always had posh taste, but it seemed he learned to make due after service was abruptly decreased during the last plague. Crowley watched as he sliced a wedge of cheese and placed it on a crusty piece of bread, his eyes wide with excitement.

“It really is quite good, Crowley, are you sure I can’t tempt you to try?”

Crowley smiled over the rim of his cup, sweet wine rippling from a huff of laughter. “If I did you’d put me out of a job.” He cooed, lowering the glass. “Leave tempting to me and enjoy your lunch.” Aziraphale answered with a shrug, biting into the bread. Crowley watched him, finger circling the rim of his glass as he recounted their meeting in the Medici home. “Speaking of doing my job, you told a lie in there.” Aziraphale briskly brushed a stray crumb from his lip with his thumb.   


“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“What a  _ beautiful _ happy boy” Crowley mimicked, his voice taking on the sweet inflection Aziraphale was known for. Aziraphale let out a disapproving hum.

“I did not call him beautiful. I congratulated Lucrezia on what a  _ happy _ and  _ healthy _ baby she had. I wouldn’t lie. I  _ can’t _ lie.”

“Oh you certainly can.” Crowley said, leaning back in his chair. “Tiptoeing around it may be polite, but it’s the same as lying. You know that baby is  _ ugly _ .”   


“It’s not lying if it’s polite!” Aziraphale exclaimed, alarming a few of the other patrons nearby. He dropped his voice, cheeks pink as he leaned closer to Crowley. “The boy was happy. Loved. Healthy. All good, honest truths. So maybe I omitted his looks. It isn’t my place to judge. All of—“

“Don’t say it—“

“God’s creatures—“

“ _ Don’t—“ _

_ “ _ Are loved.”

Crowley took a long swig of his drink, the wine tasting more bitter than before. “ _ They aren’t.”  _ He hissed, placing the cup down forcefully. “Because if they were, omissions wouldn’t be lies, and I would not be here.” Aziraphale’s hands dropped into his lap, shoulders slumped as a tense silence overcame them. Crowley sniffed loudly, eager for the moment to pass.

“All I’m saying is that he has a good heart and will go on to do magnificent things. Despite your generous gifts.”   


“I don’t see why beauty is so important. Think of it as a great service. He’ll know exactly why good-looking people are calling upon him” Crowley rubbed his thumb and forefingers together, miming wealth. “Better to know going in than going out.” Aziraphale bristled at the gesture.

“That hardly keeps one humble. What’s to say he won’t use that wealth to...to...pick the prettiest regardless of personal connection or spiritual need. You know...love at first sight, from afar.”   


It was probably an inopportune time for Crowley to remember the second gift he had bestowed upon Lorenzo de Medici, but damned if a few glasses of wine didn’t loosen his cursed tongue. He mumbled it into the rim of the glass, wishing with all his might that Aziraphale would miss it in the background chatter of the tavern. But he had no such luck.

“Hsssmypoc”

“I’m sorry,  _ what?” _

“He’s  _ myopic _ .”   


A series of looks crossed Aziraphale’s face in what Crowley could only describe as the five stages of grief, with a touch more annoyance. He looked positively overcome, as if a wrench had been thrown into the grand scheme of this Renaissance and shattered it to pieces.

“So the next, possibly most important, patron of the arts in Florence is…” Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. “ _ Nearsighted.” _   


“Like I said, it’s not that—“

“ _ Don’t you start with that! _ ” Aziraphale said, more annoyed than Crowley had ever seen him. “Why? Why this?”   


Crowley shrugged. “Dunno. Orders came and I needed to follow through. Ugly. Myopic. I’ve had worse. There’s something in this Renaissance that Hell needs as well, why else would I be here?” He looked across the table where Aziraphale was lost in thought. His eyes fixed on a crumb on the table, his mind working out the kinks to a plan Crowley had inevitably ruined. “It’s not the end of the world, Angel. This child isn’t  _ the big one _ . You know I’d—“

“I know.” Aziraphale clipped. “I know, I just...sometimes I forget.” Crowley paused, his heart faltering. Aziraphale sighed. “With all the lunches and coin flipping, sometimes I forget what  _ you do _ .” Crowley felt his stomach sink lower.

“Does it mean we can’t…” he gestured loosely at the table, unable to speak it directly. What if they couldn’t? What if these past few millennia were all a mistake? Aziraphale shook his head, clearing his throat.

“No, no we  _ can.  _ Because that’s business and this is…” he looked up from the table, eyes soft and dewy as they were that night in the courtyard.  _ Us?  _ Crowley thought.  _ Please say us.  _ “Lunch.” 

Better than nothing, Crowley supposed. Anything that kept those gentle blue eyes close to him.

“Of course. It’s just lunch.” Crowley said reassuringly. “And no business needs to be said.” He paused, his first thought being of, well,  _ business. _ “But we should discuss who is going to see the Medici—“

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Aziraphale said, returning to his bread and cheese. Crowley dug around in his pocket for a coin, producing one florin.

“Call it.”

“Heads.”

Crowley flipped it and laid it on the back of his hand; tails side up. He quickly pocketed it.

“You win. How’s next week?”   


“I can do that. Can your business wait?”   


Crowley smiled and refilled his glass from the jug sitting between them. “Easily. There’s plenty of sin to go around.” 

* * *

While the Medici were the deepest pockets, other families and guilds in Florence were scrambling to toss their cash into the proverbial pit. Frescoes, reliefs, statues, all sparked by the revived interest in classical form and the desire to buy their way out of sin. But sin was Crowley’s game, and what better way to work his magic than in the workshop.   


The artist’s workshop was a breeding ground for sinful activity. Amongst the thin underpaintings of lamentations and flagellations were anatomical studies. Lithe, nude figures draped in cloth or laid bare on platforms. Never outright lewd, but erotic enough to draw the eye a little too long. Just long enough to spark something deep in the belly of the viewer. You could find Crowley himself amongst these studies, several times if you were observant. Sometimes masculine, other times feminine, but always twisted and posed in some serpentine manner. It gained him access to the artist’s circle, deeper in a way no patron could achieve. All it took was a few sessions and a willingness to drop your robe.

“Signor Crowley, will you be sitting for us today?” A young apprentice asked, his hands full of pigments to mix. Crowley make a noise at the back of his throat.

“Mmmnnn Not today, no. I’ve come for a different reason.” Crowley looked around the workshop hesitantly. “I need you to relay this message to your master.” He produced a scrap of parchment from his cloak, placing it in the outstretched palm of the boy. The apprentice looked at it skeptically.

“He is just in back if you’d—-“

“No. Just relay the message. Make sure he gets it. It’s for his eyes only.”   


Crowley straightened himself out, turning promptly to leave the cramped space of the workshop. He did not look back, but if he did he would have seen that the apprentice—overcome with curiosity— set aside his materials to peek at the hidden message within.

_ In time, send Sandro.   
_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No babies were made ugly in the making of this chapter. If you like what you see please leave a comment! Follow me for more good omens stuff on tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy and on twitter @bifrostbite.


	3. Chapter 3

There was something not-quite-right about Florence on a Sunday morning. Perhaps it was the fact that church bells rang out incessantly, their clanging waking Crowley from whatever half-drunk stupor. Or the way the sun glinted off the Duomo, golden light never failing to find its way across his heavy lidded eyes, making rest impossible. No rest for a demon on a holy day. No rest for angels either. Aziraphale was always flitting about on Sundays, something that twisted the knife just a little deeper. No lunch. No time for catching up. It must wait until Monday (and what a joyous day that would be). Though many demons talked tough, they cowared at the sound of bells, shying away from the throng of people that marched off to the cathedral. Or Basilica. Or smaller, private chapels--good God what holy terror Aziraphale unleashed on this city. But Crowley was stubborn--and just a tad reckless--so when the sun seared his amber eyes this particular Sunday he rolled out of bed in a hurry and slipped into his clothes.   


Of course, there were other reasons Sundays were difficult for Crowley. Logical, work related things. For one, all of his tempted business associates went to church on Sundays. It was a weekly cleanse that Crowley was ever working against. A religious rinse and repeat. It was also incredibly inconvenient to lie about. Crowley couldn’t count the number of times he was seized by the arm, pulled off toward the gaping mouth of a cathedral as his oblivious captor greeted him warmly. Where else would he be going?  _ Oh,  _ Crowley would muse,  _ I prefer to worship at the Basilica. An old flame of mine haunts the Cathedral _ or  _ I’ve been invited to so-and-so’s private chapel.  _ Anything to wriggle his way out of their grasp before his feet boiled in his shoes. It rarely failed, though Crowley hated to try his luck. The upside was that every soul he tempted was worth double. A husband who slipped out of mass early, or an apprentice who pocketed a spare florin became worth their weight in spiritual gold. Just one or two made the day worth it, and his reputation in hell stronger.   


Today, it was a simple sinner. A baker’s son skipping out on mass to know the neighbor’s daughter biblically. The whole thing was over and done with in less than a minute--poor fellow--but the shame left him slinking off to fester. For a moment it looked as though Crowley might lose him as the boy weaved through the piazza and paused at the mouth of the church. Crowley paused too, watching from a distance as the boy gazed through the open doors of Santa Maria del Fiore, his eyes misty. He stood there for the better part of a minute, hands folded in front of him like a nervous child. Just as Crowley was about to call it a loss the boy moved, walking double speed away from the square and back into the narrow winding side streets, sin accomplished.   


As far as hell was concerned, that was the end of his task. ut something didn’t sit right with Crowley. The doors of the cathedral were rarely open during service. Since its beginning Christianity had a bit of a members-only mentality, rarely open to having the word of God spill into the streets where donations couldn’t be reached. Hell, you couldn’t even enter holy spaces without first being baptized (something that made Crowley’s skin crawl). So the sight of those doors wide open, inviting the world and all its trouble, was strange. And in perfect Sunday form, Crowley stubbornly--recklessly-- approached.   


He shuffled his feet along the cobblestone, waiting for the telltale sear in his heels to ward him off. But it didn’t come. Not when he was thirty feet...twenty feet...fifteen feet from the entrance. Just two steps, and then a slab, and then the doors. To be quite honest Crowley couldn’t imagine the last time he had willingly come this close to consecrated ground. Reims, perhaps. With those heavy doors wide open Crowley could see straight down the nave, the aisle lined with worshippers. Shoulder to shoulder, head bowed, swaying slightly as their weight shifted--a sea of souls. And a siren song.   


Crowley wasn’t sure how he didn’t hear it before. A choir, soft and sweet, singing from within the cathedral. It stopped him in his tracks well before the thought of consecrated ground did. The demon stood there, dumbfounded, eyes fixed down the length of the nave to where the choir stood.   


“ _ Aziraphale.”   
_

That little telltale puff of white he called a head of hair bobbed into view. Aziraphale stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the choir, chin held high as he sang in what could only be exaltation. Crowley could only watch, helpless, as the hymn continued. If the souls inside were the sea, Aziraphale was the moon. Each note from his lips pulled and pushed them like the tide, until the whole church rippled. Even in a crowd of twenty, Crowley could pick out his voice. Warm, light, soaring, as though his wings might unfurl and carry him away. It pierced Crowley deeply, right down into his core where good used to be.  _ Good _ , capital G, Her Good. All of a sudden his otherness was all too clear to him. This invisible curtain of damnation hung between him and that voice, so thick and impenetrable that Aziraphale didn’t even see him at the mouth of the church. His eyes were cast skyward, up into the vaulted ceiling and right through the rose window, where Her Light graced his face.   


It was all just too much. Too much for the boy who fled, and damn near impossible for him. Tears stung at his eyes, and Crowley finally found feeling in the iron weight of his shoes, turning his back to Santa Maria del Fiore and taking off. His feet felt lighter the further he got from the church, but the weight in his chest increased to the point of crushing. Crowley crumpled. His feet did the work for him, bringing him to the small cold chambers he inhabited before his mind caught up. By then he was already in bed, clothes cast off in a messy pile, the curtains drawn to block out all light. 

* * *

If it were up to Crowley there would be nothing but sleep. There was no need for it, obviously, but it had a certain charm that Crowley rather enjoyed. Curl up in a dark room, on a soft bed, and close your eyes. The body becomes heavy, readying for rest. Soon the senses go and the mind drifts off. Sometimes there are dreams, oftentimes not. Crowley found that dreams were finicky things, and no matter how he willed them they always left his mind shortly after waking. It was maddening. But mainly, it was an escape. Very few things interrupted his slumber. Instructions from hell were the obvious one, but with his popularity Lucifer was a little lax on how often he was called. Lavatory breaks, for certain, though Crolwey found that was only necessary when he slept upwards of a decade. The third reason was danger. The odd or so assassination attempt by a human who suspected him of demonic power. It happened twice, sort of, but nonetheless enough for Crowley to be on guard when something shifted in the room.   


_ Something  _ being the tiniest scuff of a heel on the wooden floorboards. It alerted Crowley, but not enough for his eyes to snap open. In fact he had learned it was best to keep them closed, relying on his serpentine senses to alert him when he was within striking distance. His tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, gently sipping the air that passed between his sleep slackened lips. Danger? No. But not human. Definitely advancing. Crowley curled tight beneath his blanket, a viper waiting to strike. The muted click of heels neared, and Crowley’s tongue grated hard against his teeth looking for the source.  _ Honey _ ?   


“Crowley?”   


_ Angel.  _ Crowley’s eyes snapped open, his heart clamoring in his chest. He must have bolted upright, because Aziraphale took a step back in surprise, his hands up and on guard.   


“Crowley,  _ it’s me!” _   


It took a moment for Crowley’s mind to return. His eyes darted around the room, frantically looking for answers. Aziraphale was here, in his chambers. That wasn’t a dream. The small window beside his bed was dark, also not a dream. A new sinking feeling settled in his stomach as he looked to Aziraphale.

“Have I slept through our lunch?”   


Aziraphale laughed, dropping his hands. “No, dear boy. I’m here on other business.” The word  _ business _ always felt like trouble.

“Is this business I should be privy too?” Crowley asked. It wasn’t like Aziraphale to come to him with business. That was too close to damnation. But it had been enough to bring Aziraphale to his chambers, unannounced, and to wake him. A fourth reason to wake, Crowley surmised. Aziraphale’s fingers knit together nervously.

“Well not  _ business _ -business, but...erm...may I?” Aziraphale gestured to the seat beside the bed. Crowley nodded, running a hand through his mussed hair as Aziraphale pulled up the chair. He tried to shake the feeling of this meeting. Him tangled in the sheets, Aziraphale seated beside him anxiously.  _ This is it _ , Crowley thought,  _ he’s ending this.   
_

“I need to ask you a favor. A teensy one.” Aziraphale said, his voice soft as a whisper. Crowley’s ears burned. He leaned over his knees, wanting to catch every word of this favor.

“Speak it.”

Aziraphale swallowed nervously. “I need you to push back a little on something.” Crowley quirked an eyebrow, his silence egging Aziraphale on. “It’s these sumptuary laws. They’re going a touch too far.” Crowley let out a rush of air.

“Sumptuary laws? Like married women not being able to wear jewelry? How’s that gone too far. Isn’t prideful behavior frowned upon by you lot.”

Aziraphale floundered. “It isn’t—-well it  _ is _ sinful—but that’s not it, Crowley, it’s—it’s—-“ he searched for the words, as if swishing them around on his tongue until one tasted right. “Stifling. In a frightening way too.” Whether or not Crowley believed it, Aziraphale looked positively shaken. The color drained from his face, and his hands clasped each other so tightly the knuckles turned white.

“Frightening how?”

“The way most frightening things begin. Utter obsession.” He sighed and dropped his head into his hands. “More and more restrictions are being placed on luxuries. At first it did curb pride and promote piety. But a few are beginning to work themselves into a fervor. Restriction of the body, restriction of the soul, it’s expression through art and finery. We’ve only been at this a century and it’s already crumbling, Crowley, this renaissance is going to  _ collapse—- _ “ Crowley reached out, his hand landing firm on Aziraphale’s knee.

“Angel,  _ Angel  _ it's not going to collapse. This is a minor phase. A little knee jerk reaction to the new world. It’ll pass. What are they, monks?”

Aziraphale choked out a sob. “Mostly.”

“Mostly monks. They’re a testy bunch. It will pass.” Crowley have a reassuring squeeze, trying hard not to think about the warmth radiating just beneath the thin hose, or how pale and smooth his skin must be. Aziraphale sniffled softly, the heel of his hands pressing into his now splotchy face.   


“And what if it doesn’t? What if—-“ his voice caught in his chest, a rolling wave of panic Crowley could feel in his gut. “What if we lose it all? What if it builds and builds and all the beautiful things they’ve made go up in flames…”

Ah, there it was. A sore spot Crowley had not dared breech. The dark, lingering age of iconoclasm as the Roman Empire slinked away from its former power. Humans, having not heard God’s voice in centuries, struggling to make the rules of their faith. What’s a god, what’s an idol, what can stay and what needs to be destroyed. The faithful destroying the fruits of their own labor. It pained Crowley to see Aziraphale like this, stretched thin as he tried his very best to keep the wheels greased and moving. All on his lonesome with a city on his shoulders.   


Against all better judgement Crowley moved forward, his hand sliding up from Aziraphale’s knee and around the small of his back, pulling him into a loose embrace. Not too tight, though Crowley yearned for it, he mustn’t look too eager. He mustn’t look as though he’s taking this sweet angel under his dark wing. But Aziraphale welcomed it, leaning full force into the embrace so that his face buried in the crook of Crowley’s neck and he  _ sobbed. _ Sobbed like a child who wholeheartedly tried. It took Crowley’s breath away, and his body took over. A gentle hand rubbed soothing circles on Aziraphale’s back.

“Come now, Angel. Buck up.” He mumbled, not so obviously into the soft halo of curls tickling his nose. “You’re a big strong principality.” The crook of his neck was wet with tears and Aziraphale’s hot panting breaths. Hiccupping sobs wracked through him, and Crowley saw no other option than to let him ride it out. Heaven so rarely checked up on their angels…so he pulled this one a little closer, certain no one was watching.   


“ _ I’m sorry…” _ Aziraphale croaked. He pulled away (to Crowley’s dismay) and scrubbed at the tears on his cheeks. As awful as it sounded, Crowley rather liked the way Aziraphale looked after a good cry. Big expressive eyes dewy and red rimmed. His cheeks a mess of splotchy pink. The odd shine from a stray tear. Even his hair was rumpled, plastered up from being crammed into the dip of Crowley’s neck. And even with all that, he still sported a radiant glow. Like a weight had been lifted from him. “I shouldn’t be crying to you about these things. It’s not your responsibility to— _ indulge _ these childish requests—“

“ _ No no—“  _ Crowley interrupted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to bridge the gap between them. “I mean, no— as in  _ it is _ my responsibility. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“We are.” Aziraphale said, a kerchief now dabbing at his eyes.   


“Friends help one another in need, yeah? That’s all this is. I’ll get right on it.” Crowley said hurriedly. “The sumptuary laws, the monks, I’ll...I’ll try to slow their roll. You just…” that hand fell upon Aziraphale’s knee again, and squeezed tight. “Keep up your end. None the wiser.”   


Aziraphale looked up at him, his gaze soft and focused. “You’d do that?” He asked, his voice barely audible. Crowley fumbled, retracting his hand from Aziraphale’s knee to fiddle with the rings on his fingers.

“Obviously. It’s a mutual perk. Can’t have sin if all of Florence spirals into one big monastery. And can’t have a renaissance if the art is all banned. I’ll poke around and see how I can…”  _ Help?  _ “...tempt.”   


There was a beat of silence where Crowley wondered if the floor would open up and swallow them both, but that never came. Instead Aziraphale let out a rush of air, a sigh of relief that instantly elated him.

“Oh,  _ Crowley _ , thank—“ Crowley held a finger to his lips. Aziraphale smiled shyly, and returned a pantomime of buttoning his lip. He sat back in his chair, his old cheerful self returning. It was like watching the sun rise.

“Oh I’ve been—I’ve been so silly. This is silly.” Aziraphale said, hurriedly patting his face with the kerchief. “Crying like that. It’s...it’s done now.” He sat in the chair, as composed as he could be after a cry like that, and Crowley figured now was a good time to give Aziraphale another easy out.

“Hand me my robe, would you angel? I’ve found a marvelous wine I think you’d enjoy.”   


“With pleasure.”

Aziraphale was, as always, a charming guest. He found the robe, holding it up like a gentleman so that Crowley could slip inside. It didn’t feel awkward or unnatural, not even in his state of undress as he nimbly climbed out of bed and wiggled into the garment. Aziraphale’s gaze never leered, not ever. It was always set to fond affection. Tender and sweet, only briefly glancing at Crowley’s long bare legs, his form in the thin long shirt he wore, before politely looking away. Crowley wished he hadn’t. When the garment was cinched up those pale blue eyes returned, and the bottle of wine was procured.

“It looks rather good.” Aziraphale mused, eyes too busy reading the label to notice the way Crowley’s bare leg peeked out from beneath his robe.

“It should be. I’ve got some sweetmeats as well…” Crowley said. He didn’t, but with a snap he did. Candied fruits in a small dish appeared on the table beside Aziraphale, along with two cups.   


The two drank the whole bottle, and then a second. It was easy with Aziraphale. Every sip was like water to a dying man, and his company like fresh air. It could almost be a dream. But it wasn’t.  _ Mercifully _ it wasn’t. By the time the second bottle was nothing but drips, Aziraphale rose from the table, his legs a tad wobbly.

“I must be going. I’ve got an early meeting with Ghiberti, who’s wrapping up something marvelous. I’d love to show you once it’s finished—-“ Aziraphale stumbled over himself, dissolving into a fit of giggles. Crowley laughed, chin in his hand as he beamed up at the angel.

“Of course.Sounds lovely.”

“Absolutely divine.”

“Now you’re teasing me, Aziraphale, clever thing.”

Aziraphale laughed, smoothing his hands over the silk of his frock as he staggered towards the door. “I am your most worthy adversary, Crowley, though I do not wish to tease you.”  _ Too late, _ Crowley thought. Aziraphale stood in the doorway, his tipsy sway rocking him to and fro.

“So, lunch? Perhaps after the meeting?”

“Definitely. That place from last week, I liked them.” Crowley slurred. For some reason it dawned on him just as Aziraphale turned the knob that he was all out of sorts. “Wait! Wait— I was asleep earlier so I’m a little groggy. What day is it today?”

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow, and steadied himself against the doorframe.

“Sunday, dear boy.”

Crowley snapped his fingers as if drunkenly committing it to memory. “Right. Sunday. And so tomorrow is Monday, and I will meet you at the place—after your meeting— for lunch.”   


Aziraphale flashed a thumbs up, his whole body readying itself for another round of giggles. Crowley laughed and waved Aziraphale off. “Alright shoo-shoo, fly home. Safe journey.”

“Don’t oversleep, Crowley, or I’ll have to wake you—-“

“I  _ won’t,  _ I won’t, Angel. I’m not going to stand you up at the good restaurant.” Crowley interrupted before Aziraphale could retort. “Or the bad one, I’ll be there.”   


“Well alright then. Goodnight, Crowley.”

Crowley leaned on the empty wine bottle. “Goodnight, Aziraphale.”   


The door clicked shut, and Crowley let the silence settle around him. Tomorrow, Monday, lunch with Aziraphale. Their wonderful routine. He left the empty bottles and glasses, something he’d clean in the morning, and crawled back into bed. He left the robe on, feeling as though it was a phantom hug given to him by Aziraphale. The weight was just enough to lull him to sleep, his mind slowly fading with it. Tomorrow, Monday. Lunch. Today, Sunday. Today. Sunday.

Sunday. 


	4. Chapter 4

_ Florence, 1452 _

“You simply  _ must _ see the doors.” The doors, the doors, the doors. It had been the buzz of their lunchtime conversations for years, but Crowley had always been a little too busy to accompany Aziraphale to Ghiberti’s workshop to look at them in person. Not that Crowley minded. He absolutely adored watching Aziraphale talk about them, about Ghiberti, all of it. It seemed that along with singing in choirs, performing miracles, and handing out blessings, Aziraphale was the heavenly consultant of the arts. A little—forgive him— angel on the shoulder of the artist, whispering how to best depict a scene.   


“ _ Oh yes, I’ve worked with Ghiberti for a long time” _ Aziraphale once sighed over lunch, “ _ Ever since the contest really. His Sacrifice of Isaac truly was something magnificent.” _   


“ _ Might that be because he spoke to the angel who stopped the blade?” _ Crowley had responded.  _ “You nearly missed it by the way. Trotting over just as the thing came down—“ _

_ “I had a heavy meal and it was very last minute. We didn’t think he’d get that far.”   
_

Yes, back and forth, just like this for years. The doors, the doors. He simply must go see the doors.

Well. They were complete.

Crowley woke up early to go see them before the crowds of Florence truly began to flood the streets. Golden hour, where the rolling hills beyond the city walls were drenched in pink and purple. As he slipped on his tinted glasses and stepped out into the street, Crowley wondered just how much could be said about a pair of doors on a dusty old building, anyway. He wasn’t much of a fan of holy art, seeing as his image was frequently depicted as crushed beneath the heel of Gabriel or Michael, or any host of heavenly beings who loved to replay the most painful moment of his long dragging life. But seeing as how this was on display right in the street, he might as well indulge Aziraphale.

The sun had just made itself known above the horizon as Crowley reached the building, catching sight of Aziraphale instantaneously.   


“Aziraphale!” Crowley called. The angel perked up, skittering over the cobblestones like an excited pup.   


“Oh, Crowley, I’m so glad you’ve decided to come” he said, smile already ear to ear in a manner that made Crowley’s knees buckle. He rolled his answer around like marbles in his mouth.   


“Mmmph ‘course. Why wouldn’t I?” Crowley said, glancing over at the building. “You’ve talked it up for years. Piqued my interest.” There was a moment of quiet, and Crowley took in the sight of Aziraphale. Rosy dawn suited him well. The fine, blond of his hair caught the light, soaking him in the luxurious pinks, oranges, and purples of the sunrise. It caught the pink in his cheeks and the fullness of his lips, pressed into the sweetest smile Crowley had ever seen. If every morning were like this he would be a saved soul. But today was enough.   


“Well then! Let’s take a look. It’s right round this corner.” Aziraphale said, leading the way around to where The Doors awaited. And...actually...they were  _ stunning. _

A pair of heavy doors, gilded and glittering in the light of the rising sun. They shone like gold, and drew the eye up and down as scene after scene unfolded in their reliefs. It was a selective history, of course, but beautifully done. Beautifully cast so that the light of the sun drew shadows upon the figures, bringing them into the forward where they played out their holy purpose.   


“Go on, take a closer look.” Aziraphale said, nudging Crowley gently. Crowley stepped cautiously, approaching the doors like an animal might investigate a new obstacle.

“They’re beautiful angel, truly.” Crowley said, removing his glasses to get a better look. “Excellently crafted. Has it got a name?”   


Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back, taking it all in. “There was some talk about naming them, but as of right now they’re just The Doors. I leave the naming up to the people, it’s not my place.”   


Crowley sniffed, looking around as though trying to find his bearings. “Not your place, eh? But you’ve no problem making these beautiful things the  _ eastern doors. _ ”

“ _ Purely coincidental. _ ” Aziraphale quipped. “Besides, they’re the ones who suggested that special doors be made for the east side of the Baptistry—“

“Baptistry?” Crowley interjected   


“Yes, dear boy, the place where you go to get baptized.”

Crowley let out a strangled scream, leaping back like a startled cat.   


“A little  _ warning _ , Angel, would be nice before I touch noses with a building  _ flooded _ with holy water.” Crowley said, heart beating faster than he thought possible. Had this not been Aziraphale, he would have been properly cross over it. Aziraphale clicked his tongue with annoyance.

“It’s not  _ flooded _ , Crowley, I wouldn’t do that to you. There’s just a font inside. Conversions and births happen so rapidly we needed a building for it.” Crowley scrunched his face in disgust.

“You dunk the  _ kids _ ?”

“We do not  _ dunk— _ well—we do liberally splash—-it’s not the  _ same,  _ Crowley. These aren’t river baptisms it’s all very routine. All very safe for those who aren’t, uh, heavenly aligned.” Aziraphale said, returning his gaze to the doors. “That being said I’d refrain from touching the handle, who knows if they forgot to wipe it down.”   


Crowley folded his arms, gripping the sleeves of his tunic so that he’d be less tempted to reach out and sear his palms on the doors. “Well...it’s still very well done.” His amber eyes lingered on the first panel, watching the scene of Adam and Eve. Their creation, their temptation (again, one of his more demonically ambiguous moments), and their expulsion. Left to right their tragedy unfolded, humanity’s greatest downfall contained in one little panel. The way they slinked away from the wall, cast out by a heavenly figure peeking through a window in the stone.

“Is that supposed to be  _ you?!”  _ Crowley snorted. He leaned in closer, seeing familiar curls cast in the bronze relief. Crowley made a noise of disapproval at the back of his throat. “Mmmm you really showed them the door, didn’t you, angel? Though something seems to be missing. Something sharp and hot that’s at the tip of my tongue—-“

“That’s a narrative that doesn’t need to be continuous.” Aziraphale clipped, his eyes darting briefly skyward. “Besides. That’s just one of many scenes Ghiberti worked so hard on.”   


Crowley swept through the scenes, taking them all in. “So I see. Jacob and Esau, David, heavy hitters.” He stepped back, joining Aziraphale to take it all in from afar. With every passing minute the sky lightened, and noise was returning to the streets of Florence. But right here was quiet. So very still. Aziraphale sighed softly.

“It’s always bittersweet when a project ends.” He said, his eyes a little dewy. “This one particularly. Nearly twenty-seven years of work.” Crowley felt something twist in his stomach, the memory of the last time Aziraphale shared a completed project with him. How it ended with an untimely goodbye, and a century of heartache and black sludge. Aziraphale seemed to pick up on this. “I’m not leaving, Crowley.” he reassured. “I didn’t bring you here for some grand goodbye. You’re very much stuck with me until this whole renaissance passes.” So a century, maybe two. Crowley could live with that.   


“I figured you were stuck with me.” Crowley said slyly. “What with me being the fly in the drink that is humanity.”

“Oh, _ stop that _ \--”

“All’s I’m saying.”   


The two turned back to the doors, now fully gleaming as the sun broke over the sleepy buildings of Florence. They stood there for a while in mutual silence, helpless but to relive their history as it cast longer and longer shadows. 

* * *

_ Tuscany, 1475   
_

“Work” is a very, very loose term. Frame any sort of thing the right way and technically it’s  _ work _ . A night at a bar, a few winks; that’s work. Affixing a florin to the cobblestone and letting events unfold;  _ that’s work _ . So a leisurely, indulgent, downright luxurious holiday in Tuscany? Undeniably work-related. Especially when it involved the Medici.   


Lorenzo di Medici, now a man grown, had formally extended an invitation to the Villa Medici; a charming, sprawling villa nestled in the fertile Fiesole hills. It was a very sought after invitation. Afterall, prominent families in Florence were scrambling to include Medici symbols in their crests and patronage just to  _ prove  _ they were close friends. Crowley was no exception. All it took was a well written note, embellished with the symbol of a snake coiled tight around a diamond ring, and an invitation soon followed. It was about time too, Crowley had only known the kid his whole life.   


The villa itself was a thing of beauty. Quiet, serene, perfectly situated on a ridge that overlooked the rolling Tuscan countryside. Something about this place inspired beauty. Perhaps it was the way the cypress trees stretched towards the sky, or the way the hills faded from green to gold as the swelled on the horizon. It was a sanctuary for the elite, away from the Florentine bustle, where minds could wander. Perfect for Crowley.   


“Signor Crowley, your chambers are this way.” an attendant said, leading Crowley through the perfectly manicured garden and into the cool darkness of the villa. Crowley waved his hand, temporarily lightening the weight of the leather trunk his attendant struggled with. Had to look the part, of course, all of Lorenzo’s guests brought their finest. And from what Crowley had heard, the young Medici had quite the circle. Wealthy young humanists, enthused about the classical world and its place in their society. A little wine and his job was nearly done.   


“Right through here, Signore.”   


Crowley stepped into a luxurious room. A large, soft bed, framed by ornate curtains. The walls were pale and bare, with a stone blue trim that evoked a sense of serenity. In the high noon sun the whole place looked like it was soft and barely in focus, as though it was inviting its guests to curl up and rest. Crowley would have to be careful here. He might sleep through this whole holiday.   


“Signor Fell, I hope this is to your liking--”

Crowley turned on his heel, hearing another attendant fumbling down the hall. Could it? No...well...who else was going to have that name in this city.

“It’s  _ marvelous _ , thank you.” replied a chipper voice. Oh it definitely was. Crowley chewed his lip, his mind filling with possibilities. Work just got a whole lot easier to explain. Luxury villa, primed for sin, and then an angel shows up? Not on his watch. Best to distract the angel, get a few temptations in, and send a good report down to Hell. There were a few things he’d leave out, of course, like the way he fussed quickly in front of the mirror, checking his curls and smoothing his rich black doublet. Or how he took a few steps back, transferring his weight from foot to foot looking for the absolute perfect angle to hold himself. These were minor details; Crowley’s secrets of the trade. They never made the report when Aziraphale was involved.   


Crowley stepped out of his chambers, catching a glimpse of the angel as an unfortunate Medici attendant laid three large trunks at his feet. Taking advantage of his position, Crowley leaned against the door frame, hip cocked in a somewhat casual manner that only accentuated how lithe his figure was.   


“Would you like a room with all that luggage, Angel?”

Aziraphale looked up, eyes sparkling.   


“Crowley! I didn’t know you’d be here.” he said, just a touch out of breath. “I, erm, got a last minute invitation. Didn’t know what to expect so I packed, well, everything.” Aziraphale’s eyes flickered up and down the length of Crowley’s body, just enough to make heat prickle beneath the demon’s skin. “But now I feel I should have known you’d be here. Seems like your kind of party.”

“A villa filled with young, wealthy men, drinking and eating, discussing life and the meaning of knowledge? My scene?” Crowley asked, sarcasm coloring his voice. Aziraphale pulled a face, unamused.   


“Very funny”   


“What about you, then? Here to inspire some patronage or just to sample some fine vintage?” Crowley asked, turning his attention to the wood of the door. He picked at it lightly, trying not to look too eager to spend an extended stay in close quarters. Aziraphale searched for the words.   


“I, well, both. It’s both. I feel a bit wrong admitting this but some minor miracles may have been moved around to accommodate this trip.” he said, his eyes averting to the floorboards. “Nothing that couldn’t wait, of course, just…”

“You needed a break. I get it.” Crowley said, saving Aziraphale from admitting it. “You’re not shirking your duties, Aziraphale. Head office has rarely stepped foot on Earth since they wrapped up their business with Christ. Work is what  _ we _ make it. This is work.”   


Aziraphale smiled weakly, his cheeks dusted pink. “I knew you’d say something like that.” He said, fiddling with the strap of the trunk at his feet. “And you’re right. This is work as much as anything. It just happens to be a little more glamorous than usual.”

“That’s the spirit” Crowley said. “So let’s bring your things in and get to work, yeah?” Crowley picked up the trunks, squeezing past Aziraphale to place them in the equally luxurious suite he had been given. Just across the hall, how nice. This could be an excellent holiday. 

* * *

The first few days were quieter than expected. Business held up two of the guests, and the festivities wouldn’t start without them. Without anyone to tempt, Crowley took some time to unwind. He explored the grounds of the villa, committing every nook and cranny to memory, scoping out places for temptation to strike. It felt felt like he was once again his serpentine self, unleashed into yet another garden to wreak havoc.  _ And how little things have changed _ , Crowley thought as he glanced over his shoulder, catching Aziraphale surveying the countryside from his high window. Only this time the stakes were less high. This time the day would end with the two of them playing cards.   


Thankfully, Lorenzo’s younger brother Giuliano arrived soon after Crowley and Aziraphale, bringing with him a case of fine wine. It sat untouched until the fourth night, when the party finally began.   


“Salutaria!”

A chorus of voices raising their glasses, evoking the old glory of Rome. Crowley and Aziraphale clanged cups, smiling to themselves as their company downed their glasses. Everything comes back around in the end. At least the wine was better.Seated around a long table the feast began, Medici and company busy brushing up on current events.What’s new in trade? Who was married off? So-and-so is writing their son out of the will. Crowley listened carefully, reading each man at the table for signs of weakness. As was Aziraphale. It was frustrating to work beside him, with those blue eyes searching for some shred of good to secure their souls.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Crowley muttered behind his glass. “These men marinate in usury and adultery.” Aziraphale looked down his nose, cutting his meal into delicate pieces.

“Everyone fears what comes after this. Your seduction won’t work here“

“Cocky  _ bastard _ .” Crowley smirked. Aziraphale let out a huff of laughter, but politely covered it with his napkin. The meal soon finished, shifting over to one of the open air loggias, where the men could sprawl and drink in the cool night air. It was a mild evening, warm enough that Crowley didn’t need his cloak, with a gentle breeze that made the cypress trees quiver in the distance.   


It was here that Lorenzo the Magnificent truly came into his own. Surrounded by those who read on philosophy, they picked apart their universe. Mused over what was and what would be. Of course, two guests knew what the world would be—in a certain, open ended way. There just wasn’t a date yet. But here that date was so far away, and their world was both massive and all too small. As it is for most people who stay close to home.   


Bottle after bottle was opened, and as Crowley swirled the contents of his glass he came to a startling revelation.

“Aziraphale…” He slurred, “M’ too drunk for sh-, for sh-“ he stopped, took a deep breath, and annunciated. “For sin-ning.” Oh yes. He was. He could do little more than make playful banter at the moment. Any sinful suggestion would no doubt come out clunky and brash. Beside him Aziraphale looked no better. The giggles had hit him hard, and Crowley watched as the angel used all his strength to keep the rippling wine from dribbling down his cheek.

“ _ So am I” _   


Crowley laughed, and rested his head back into the plush chair. “We...we need to do  _ better.”  _ Off in the distance a familiar topic arose, the Medici brothers gesturing wildly with excitement. Aziraphale tilted his glass to his lips.

“Oh good heavens, they’re planning a  _ bacchanalia _ .”

“ _ Really?” _ Crowley marveled “And I didn’t even have to go over there. Humans, huh.” Of all the things they could have mentioned, bacchanalia was one of the more tantalizing. It was hazy even for Crowley, but stoked a fire in him. Masses of writhing bodies. Wine fueled passions. Drums beating so loud that cries were drowned out. The odd man who would find himself torn limb from limb as Bacchus’ followers worked themselves into a fervor. Great times for a demon. “Let’s hope they behave a little better.”   


“That’s surprising, coming from you” Aziraphale said, his head tipping lazily to the side. Crowley hummed.

“S’not all bad, you know. The world wouldn’t end if you had ended up under some Roman sentry.”

“Oh, I  _ know _ .”   


Crowley’s heart stopped. He turned to Aziraphale, a flush creeping over his pale features.   


“ _ You what?” _ Crowley asked, hoping for a split second this was a clever joke. Aziraphale, his prim and proper angel, couldn’t be—well—-getting more action than he was, quite frankly. Any, really. But the look on Aziraphale’s face was all telling. His eyes were soft and unfocused, mind drifting to some pleasant memory of a long lost lover. It made Crowley’s stomach twist.   


“I, uh,  _ oh dear.”  _ Aziraphale covered his face with his hands. “Oh no, no, I shouldn’t have said—it’s not—-“ His face turned bright red, and he sat up in his chair abruptly, trying to find the strength to stand. “I should  _ go,  _ yes. I’ll be in my room—“ Crowley caught him by the arm as he rose to his feet, firmly plopping him back down in the chair.

“Not so fast, Aziraphale, we’ve just gotten to the good bit.” The good bit would kill Crowley. Aziraphale settled back into his seat, hands clasped in his lap nervously. Crowley leaned close to ensure their conversation was private. “Now then, is it safe to assume you are  _ not  _ a virgin?” Aziraphale’s face was beet red, and not from wine.   


“That would be a...safe assumption.”

“ _ Aziraphale _ !” Crowley chided, his tone more playful than the twisting that was tearing up his insides. “A sentry in the baths?” As much as it stung he had to know what it took to seduce an angel. Aziraphale's eyes met his, and Crowley noticed how he gnawed on his lip nervously.  


“Promise you won’t tell a soul?”

“I promise.”   


Aziraphale fidgeted, flustered by the attention and having to recall something so intimate. “Not a sentry or in the baths. He was just a nice man with a vineyard near Naples. Lonely fellow, oh poor thing. I was lodging with him while awaiting new orders, and we got to talking. And then talking led to, well, feelings. I’m a being of  _ love,  _ Crowley, in all its expressions. So one day we were taking a walk through the vineyards and…” he trailed off, overcome with shyness. “Well, I don’t need to be telling  _ you  _ what happened next. I’m sure you know.”   


“I’m sure I don’t.” Crowley replied. The words spilled from his wine-loosened lips before his mind caught them. He had to know. Had to wrap his head around the image of some man taking Aziraphale in a vineyard. Anything to justify the jealousy brewing in his gut.   


“We,  _ you know. Made love.” _ Aziraphale whispered giddily. “Can you believe it? It was just this spontaneous little moment, and there was trust and euphoria…” To see Aziraphale talk about it was like watching him talk about the doors. Sex was art to him, as were most things humanity dabbled in. “Everything just clicked and he felt  _ loved.” _

__ Crowley wondered how that felt, and for a moment wished to be a man who died 1400 years ago. What could he have said to win Aziraphale’s heart like that? One human, with maybe a handful of months, over the thousands of years Crowley had been offering what he assumed were obvious love gestures. Instead he was here, drunk beyond belief, cursing the way his cock swelled at the thought of Aziraphale laid bare in a vineyard. Legs open and inviting, hands roaming, lips panting—

Aziraphale giggled, his hand dropping onto Crowley’s knee. “It was so silly, really.” He slumped in his chair, bracing himself against Crowley’s knee. “So clumsy and frantic. One moment I’m upright and the next…” Crowley perked up as Aziraphale slid off the chair, his body moving awkwardly from drunkenness. One hand remained on Crowley’s knee, guiding the rest of Aziraphale as he settled on the floor, kneeling perfectly between Crowley’s parted knees.

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ That man did  _ not _ seduce Aziraphale. The daft fool did it all on his own.

Crowley let out a strangled noise, not sure how to react to the angel nestled between his legs. They were drunk, obviously. Aziraphale was  _ very drunk.  _ Why else would he slink off his chair and wedge himself between Crowley’s knees, head resting on one as he looked up at Crowley with heavy lidded eyes. With that thumb that rubbed absent minded circles on the inside of his leg, causing his cock to throb beneath the awkward arm Crowley hid it with. This was too fast. Too dangerous even for him.   


“Crowley?” Aziraphale said softly. “You look so pale. Are you ill?” Crowley swallowed dryly, thankful that his dark glasses hid the panicked yellow of his eyes.   


“I’ve had too much to drink.” He said, half slurred. In truth he was sobering up, but best play the part of the drunken fool before this went any further. “C’mon, angel, let’s get you to your room before some new beau snatches you up.”

Aziraphale groaned, rising to his feet. “You’re absolutely right. We’ve indulged entirely too—too—“ he staggered drastically, and Crowley moved just in time to catch him. “I’m sorry, dear boy, I’m more light headed than I thought.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale close, slinging one arm around his shoulders.

“Luckily I’m headed the same way.”

It wasn’t an easy journey, but Crowley didn’t mind. Watching Aziraphale stumble over his own feet was reward enough, every misstep accompanied by tinkling laughter. Crowley couldn’t blame the man from Naples for falling so hard. He wasn’t the only one. And though they shared a night of passion, Crowley held out hope that maybe this friendship might develop into something deeper. If not, they still had this. Drunken nights staggering home. Lunches. Art and music. His company, more precious than anything in this world.   


As Crowley helped Aziraphale into bed he took a long lingering look at his friend, watching him paw at the sheets and clutch a feather pillow to his chest securely.

“I think I’ll close my eyes...take a little nap…” he mumbled, eyes closed and on their way to sweeter dreams. Crowley smiled and laid a blanket atop him, soaking in one last look before heading to his cold lonely room.   


“Goodnight, angel.” 


	5. Chapter 5

_ Sound Asleep, Tuscany, 1475 _

The first thing Crowley noticed was the heat. A clinging, sweltering heat that made the auburn ringlets of his hair stick to his brow. His eyes strained against the strength of the sun, hot and bright in the sky, blinding the world around him. But Crowley didn’t need to see to know where he was; he knew this heat down in his bones. It was outside the Baths of Trajan, a delightful thermae he frequented around the second century. Though it now lay in ruins, the Baths lived on in their glory here in his dreams. Crowley’s feet instinctively guided him, his robe swishing about his ankles with every step.   


Stepping within the tall structure Crowley had to wonder if he had stepped into a memory; everything was just as he last saw it. The rough stone exterior gave way to smooth polished marble. The floors were alive with mosaics, their patterns intricate and precise. The cool, tinkling sound of water could be heard, and the soft murmur of voices filled the air. Sunlight streamed through arches, dappling the open air courtyard with long shadows. The Baths of Trajan were sprawling, enough to accommodate hundreds on a busy day. But in this dreamstate they existed in a place of tranquility, with only a handful of souls to help ease the mind.   


Crowley sighed, taking in a lungful of air he knew couldn’t be from here. He made his way to the changing rooms, unfastening the pin that held his black robes together. The material fell from his shoulders, and was quickly bunched up and put aside. It didn’t matter where, obviously. In fact Crowley knew he’d be waking before he even needed it again. The same went for his tinted glasses, which disappeared the moment he remembered them. He did find a bath linen, and wrapped it around his waist loosely, his mind clearly working through some muscle memory. From there it was only a few short twists and turns to the pools, where the gentle sound of splashing could be heard.   


The first pool was open air, and glittered in the midday sun. The courtyard around it was covered, and a few people meandered around. Crowley always liked company in his dreams, and these men were no exception. They lounged in the pool, or walked slowly around the perimeter, murmuring sweet nothings. Without a second thought, Crowley disrobed, and stepped in.  The tepidarium, the first pool that Crowley dipped into was well...tepid...that was pretty straight forward. He never really paid all that much attention to the names during its time, but he got the jist. Warm, hot, and cool pools to cycle through, until you emerge revitalized and refreshed. The latin mutated and split over time, but the remnants remained in his mind. And if his mind faltered, his body wouldn’t. He stayed a good long while, face turned up towards the sun and basking in the gentle lap of the pool. Every so often a cloud would pass, its shade causing Crowley to wonder how much of his magic he’d subconsciously thrown into this dream. It was intense; unlike anything he’d experienced before. Dragging his fingers through the water felt real as ever, and he could even feel the beginnings of a sunburn threatening his shoulders. Not wanting to find out in the morning, Crowley heaved himself from the pool, grabbing his linen and padding towards the indoor pool marked  _ caldarium. _ A blast of steam wafted as he walked in, and Crowley hissed at the change in temperature.  _ Cald---not cold-- hot. Steam room, right,  _ Crowley thought, feeling just how old he was as he struggled to remember any Latin at all. It wouldn’t help the phantom sting of a sunburn, but at least he was inside.   


It was much darker here, with windows high and narrow to prevent the heat from escaping. Crowley stepped carefully on the tile floor, not wanting to slip and find out how real a fall felt here. He dropped his linen by the poolside once more, slipping into the steaming hot bath with a groan. This had to be a memory. All that talk of Rome at the dinner table, the stories he swapped with Aziraphale, he was reliving it. Not that it was all bad. In fact, Crowley welcomed it. His mind was a little rusty, and anything he could glean from this memory could be useful in tempting his wealthy targets. Aziraphale would know more than him, anyhow. He spent much more time in Rome than Crowley, which always felt like an odd place in their timeline (he never would forgive Aziraphale for Constantine).

And then, as if by magic, he appeared. No, not Constantine— _ Aziraphale. _   


Yes, Aziraphale, at the far edge of the pool. His figure was shrouded by steam, but Crowley knew it anywhere. The way he held himself was undeniable; dignified, yet a touch self conscious.  _ So this isn’t some specific memory _ , Crowley surmised. Aziraphale had never been in the Baths with him, not  _ ever.  _ In fact, Crowley has never seen Aziraphale less than fully dressed. Even by Eden standards he was dressed to the nines, never a wayward sliver of skin to lead the imagination. But here in his dreams that was all different.

Aziraphale stood by himself, looking around as if taking in the sights and sounds of the bathhouse. He was as dressed as one could be in here—which is to say,  _ not very. _ He clutched a white bath linen around his waist, tighter and more secure than Crowley would have. It was the  _ only  _ thing he had, and Crowley noticed how it was heavy and damp from drying off after the tepidarium. The white linen had lost some of its opaqueness, shedding even more modesty as Crowley could make out the shadow of Aziraphale’s cock beneath the cloth. Oh, how that riled him up. Though it was only his imagination, it truly  _ did _ look real. Every curve Crowley had admired under layers of clothes was bared to him, and he drank in the sight of a soft belly and thighs. Aziraphale’s whole being radiated warmth, so soft and inviting that Crowley found himself wading across the steamy pool helplessly.   


Aziraphale failed to notice him, as he was too preoccupied with anxiously sweeping the room with his eyes. Crowley swam up, resting himself on the cool tile lip of the pool.

“Shy, Angel?” He purred. Aziraphale, the dream-conjured beauty, jumped a bit. His eyes darted down to the water, locking in on Crowley as though he had been surprised by a predator. Crowley noted the way his stance shifted, knees knocking together shyly, as if Crowley’s presence made him feel more exposed.   


“ _ Crowley.”  _ Aziraphale breathed. It was enough to make Crowley’s cock twitch excitedly beneath the water. Aziraphale’s hand clutched the linen tighter, inadvertently pressing more of his length against the wet fabric. “I,erm, didn’t expect  _ you _ here.”

Crowley hummed in agreement, his amber eyes raking up and down Aziraphale’s barely clothed form hungrily. “So did I. I don’t remember this being one of your haunts.” He meant it as a joke, but he truly didn’t know what his subconscious wanted from him. Well, except for one thing. Crowley discreetly slipped a hand into the water, palming at his hard cock. No shame in doing it here. It was only his mind. It wasn’t like he hadn’t dreamed of Aziraphale before—and in all sorts of compromising positions too. This was just the first that made him wait for it.   


“It is, I just…” Aziraphale trailed off, and Crowley began to notice that the room felt a bit crowded. “I’m usually here before the crowds. But now I’m, erm, less inclined to participate.”

Crowley pulled a face. “Nonsense, Aziraphale. Everyone here is wearing less than you. No one is looking, just drop it and hop on in.” Even in his dreams he’s coaxing Aziraphale out of the tightly wound ball he’s twisted himself into. Aziraphale let out a small groan.

“I really  _ can’t, _ I—“

Crowley groaned, and heaved himself out of the pool in one smooth motion. If this had been anything but a dream Crowley would have asked Aziraphale to turn away while he made himself decent—for Aziraphale’s sense of modesty, of course. But this was  _ his _ mind and  _ his _ conjuring, so he didn’t feel the least bit intimidated as he stood nude before Aziraphale there in the Baths.   


“Look.” Crowley said lowly. He meant it to be encouraging, but the timbre of his voice made it sound like a command. And, surprisingly, Aziraphale obeyed. He looked; he looked  _ right at him.  _ Crowley couldn’t imagine a sweeter feeling than those expressive blue eyes roaming his body, drinking in every last detail just as Crowley had always wanted.   


Aziraphale’s lips moved wordlessly, cheeks tinged an alluring shade of pink. The hand at his bath linen trembled, and suddenly Crowley was overcome with the urge to move this further. He reached out, fingers grasping the linen and pulling it from Aziraphale’s waist in one swift motion, exposing him. Aziraphale gasped, hands rushing to cover the already stiff cock that bobbed up. Crowley felt a heat coil in his belly, his own cock hardening at the sight. His angel, wearing only his modesty, so solid and real and ready to tempt. Too good to pass up.

Without a word Crowley pulled Aziraphale in, locking lips in a kiss he had imagined thousands of times over. It was fiery and all consuming, causing Aziraphale to melt at his touch. Aziraphale sighed, moaning into the kiss as his hands left his cock to wrap around Crowley’s neck. Crowley’s hands wandered, grabbing fistfuls of soft flesh and squeezing, drawing delightful yelps from the angel. Fuck, it only this were real. If only Crowley could express every passion he had outside the confines of his mind. But dreams were fleeting, and he did not intend to waste this moment. While he still had this dream Aziraphale, he would be bolder…more decisive.

Crowley let a hand snake between them, his long slender fingers grasping Aziraphale and applying long luxurious strokes. Aziraphale whimpered, his hips leaning into the touch. Watching him was  _ divine _ . Aziraphale’s eyes, already clouded with lust, left Crowley’s gaze for a moment, fixating on something over his shoulder. His cheeks tinged deeper red, as though embarrassed.

“They’re looking right at us” he whispered, referring to the crowd that Crowley had absentmindedly conjured. The souls of the bathhouse all began to stand around, their eyes fixed with intrigue on the two. The thought of it exhilarated Crowley. Centuries of keeping his love hidden, longing to publicly share his affections. So here, in the safety of his own mind, he would.   


“Let them look.” Crowley growled, sinking to his knees, “I want them to see you cum” He parted his lips, giving Aziraphale’s cock a long, torturous lick. Aziraphale bucked his hips in search of more contact. Crowley was quick to give it to him. One hand wrapped around the base, his lips over the head of the cock, Crowley pumped away at Aziraphale. Hands found their way into his hair, pulling at the too-short ringlets in desperation.   


“ _ Oh~”  _ Aziraphale moaned, pushing himself deeper into Crowley’s mouth. “ _ Crowley”  _ How sweet his name sounded coming from Aziraphale’s lips. Crowley bobbed his head, earning himself a few more renditions of his name before he got a better idea.

“Join me, won’t you, angel?” He purred into the junction of Aziraphale’s hip. Aziraphale obliged, sinking to his knees so that he was once again face to face with Crowley. Crowley caught his lips in a kiss, enjoying the soft mewling noise the angel made as he leaned forward, gently coaxing Aziraphale to lay flat on his back on the tile floor. “Look at you,” Crowley whispered, his lips ghosting over Aziraphale’s cheek. “Absolutely divine on your back like this.” He kissed At Aziraphale’s neck, leaving a string of pink splotches he wished the real Aziraphale would carry. Beneath him, his dream conjured angel writhed, hard need between them.   


“ _ Crowley, please” _ Aziraphale begged. Crowley smiled into the crook of the angel’s neck.

“Spread your legs.”   


Aziraphale did so, his eyes once again darting to the onlookers behind Crowley, half wary/half enticed. Crowley liked this spark in him. He pulled away, sitting back on his heels in order to take a better look. Crowley had to swallow the noise that tried to rise from his throat at the sight. His angel,  _ truly his _ , waiting and willing. No pretense. No heaven or hell to report to. Just them. Crowley ignored the needling feeling in his heart that told him this wasn’t real. He knew that. He just needed a few more minutes here; that’s all.

Without hesitation Crowley dipped between Aziraphale’s legs, hands gripping at those soft thighs to nudge them wider. His tongue darted out, teasing Aziraphale gently. Aziraphale responded remarkably, melting under his touch. The best thing about dream sex is,well, you don’t necessarily have to think about it. A vial of oil was suddenly in Crowley’s palm, and within seconds he had slicked up a finger and coaxed it gently into Aziraphale, earning only a slight hitch and hiss.   


“Tell me what you want, Angel.” Crowley whispered, looking up at him from where his cheek was pressed flush to Aziraphale’s thigh.   


“I want  _ you,  _ Crowley.” Aziraphale breathed “Isn’t it obvious?”

_ If only it were,  _ Crowley thought. Crowley let out a huff, and kissed Aziraphale’s thigh tenderly. “Then I won’t keep you waiting, beautiful.”   


This  _ was _ a dream, and Crowley knew he could climb on top of Aziraphale right now and get going, but every moment was to be savored. Crowley spent a good while between the angel’s legs, licking and kissing, working his fingers deeper and stretching him out nicely. Every curl of his finger earned Crowley another sweet sound, and often the involuntary jerk of Aziraphale’s body as he opened up.   


“I thought you said you wouldn’t keep me waiting” Aziraphale panted. “You’re just toying with me.” Crowley looked up from between his legs, a little stunned.   


“I’d never toy with you.” Crowley said lowly. “I only want a few more moments with you. Before this all ends.” There was no response to that, for which Crowley was grateful. No need for his mind to snap back at him now. Crowley positioned himself, hands dragging Aziraphale’s hips toward him roughly. Aziraphale looked at him with those eyes, so full of soft adoration.

Dreams can be so cruel. The flesh beneath his hands felt so real, the way Aziraphale keeled and whined as Crowley pushed into him—it could have been real. But Crowley knew better. Knew the only thing keeping this whole charade together was his will power. And for the first few thrusts it was just that—a battle of wills. But dreams have their way of winning, and with every moan Aziraphale let out Crowley’s will eroded. It made him soft and vulnerable. He began to lose himself, a piece of him wanting to experience this as if it  _ was _ the real thing. That he was loved and wanted, and that this was a particularly raunchy habit of theirs.   


Crowley doubled over, burying his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck as he thrust into him. It even smelled of his cologne, the one he’d come to love hundreds of years after, tinged with that natural musk he could sniff out anywhere. Of all the demons to give an imagination, it had to be Crowley. Another twist of the knife, he supposed. Aziraphale’s hands found their way into his hair, carding through the short ringlets like a lover would, feeling every inch of him. Crowley couldn’t hold back, though he felt himself on the brink of his release.

“ _I_ _love you_ ” he breathed against Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale’s hands clutched at him tighter, the two of them working up towards their climax. Crowley felt everything come up from him, the proverbial word vomit of a desperate man. “ _Please say it back.”_   


“Crowley,  _ I—“  _ Aziraphale stopped, his eyes looking around as though someone shut off the lights. “ _ I can’t see you” _   


Crowley looked up, the bathhouse slowly crumbling to ruin. The onlookers melted, their presence nothing more than shadows that ran like ink into the water. It tinged it black. The tiles aged, cracked, and crumbled. The water left. Crowley felt the hands in his hair begin to grow faint.

“No, no” Crowley said, clutching at him. “ _ Aziraphale—-“  _ Beneath him Aziraphale began to fade. The soft flesh beneath Crowley’s palms felt cold and ghostly, and as the panic set in Crowley could have sworn that as he looked into Aziraphale’s unfocused eyes he could see the cracked tile beneath his body.   


“ _ Crowley?”  _ Aziraphale whispered. His voice sounded distant, as though he was calling out to him. “ _ Tell me where you are—“ _

“I’m  _ here” _ Crowley croaked. He cradled Aziraphale’s head with his hand, watching helplessly as he faded from this place. “I’m here, Aziraphale, just one more moment—-“

_ 3 am, Tuscany, 1475 _

Crowley sat in his feather bed, his skin slicked in sweat, heart racing as though he’d been chased for miles. The dream was still with him, but in pieces. He remembered the bathhouse. Aziraphale. The way he faded in his arms. Crowley groaned, rubbing his tired eyes in frustration.

  
“ _ Fuck.”  _ He swore, feeling the tears roll down his cheek. “ _ Fuck fuck FUCK.”  _ There was no hope in getting any shut eye now. His night had ended. Crowley settled back into his pillows, his amber eyes focused on the ceiling above him. He’d wait here like this until the sun rose, and then a little longer, until it felt like the right time to slither out of bed and pretend everything was alright. Until then he would stare at the cracks, and try not to remember how they looked behind Aziraphale’s fading eyes. 


	6. Chapter 6

_Medici Gardens, Tuscany, 1475_

“So what would you say?” Crowley mused, reclining back onto a bench in the gardens, “If he asked you?” Before him stood a kitchen maid, a young girl of seventeen or so. Crowley had seen her wandering far from the kitchens during work hours, eventually finding out that she had been meeting with one of the Medici guests in his chambers. She was a lovely girl, stopped only by her low social standing. She fidgeted nervously.

“I would say yes, of course.” 

A misguided girl, too. Not that it was entirely her fault. She was young, as Crowley once was (in theory more than practice.) She didn’t know that people lie, and that those lies were most often sweet promises. In the eyes of the church she’d already sinned a great deal, but to Crowley she was just shy of innocent. She did not know the full weight of her situation just yet. Crowley sighed.

“And has he mentioned this before? The idea of marriage?” 

The maid blushed. “He has, once or twice.”

“Ah.” Crowley clipped. That was all the answer he needed. Once or twice, usually in a compromising situation, when his hose felt tight and there were too many layers of silk between them. “Well if it’s once or twice, must be genuine. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that.” The maid looked distraught, as if she hadn’t expected Crowley to be so cavalier. But what else was he to do? He could see the writing on the wall already. This wasn’t a happy ending. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Will he not ask me to be his wife?”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m not in Giuseppi’s shoes, darling, I can’t say for sure.” He could, but that wasn’t his job. He didn’t need to do his job at all, really. He wasn’t like other demons, who might hand the girl a letter opener and suggest she saw it across his throat. He didn’t even plant doubt in her mind. Crowley just presented the facts, and let the dice fall where they may. In this case, it would end in thievery and vagrancy. Crowley was about to continue when another voice called out from over the hedges.

“Fiora, dear girl” Speak of the dev--well,no-- _lord_. Aziraphale came trotting from around the hedges, his cheeks hot and pink from the heat. “They’re looking for you in the kitchen. Best hurry so they don’t know you’re gone.” he panted, relief written all over his face. Crowley groaned and slinked off his bench. The maid gathered herself and headed back towards the kitchen in a hurry, the sound of shouting floating its way down from the home. 

“Right on time...sort of.” Crowley said, swaggering into the garden. He walked slowly, anticipating the pitter-patter of Aziraphale’s shoes behind him. They did, of course, as they normally did when Crowley was thwarted in the act of evil. 

“What nonsense were you getting that girl into? She’s entirely too young for--”

“I did nothing, angel. She’s already found all the trouble she can handle.” Crowley said, stepping over a short row of flowers. Aziraphale skittered around them to keep up.

“Oh? So you weren’t trying to tempt her?”

Crowley shrugged. “I’ve got priors, but _no_. Aziraphale, I mean it. She’s with child, I can tell. And Giuseppi is the father. There’s nothing I need to do here.” Aziraphale stopped, wiping his hands on his sleeves casually.

“Oh that’s simple then. They’re very much in love, they’ll be married. Problem solved.” Crowley snorted in response. Aziraphale crossed his arms. “What?”

“Don’t be naive. He’s not gonna marry her, angel, she’s a kitchen maid. I’ve seen it a million times. It’s all canoodling until a baby comes along, and then she’s thrown out of the house, unemployed, and resorts to stealing. He goes ahead and marries some girl with a dowry.” Crowley said. He kicked at the dirt, sending bits of gravel and rock out across the manicured garden. Aziraphale scowled. 

“So pessimistic.”

“Realistic.” Crowley retorted. “It’s not my fault the truth is depressing.”

“One could argue that it _is_ your fault” Crowley did not like the side-eye that accompanied that sentence. He turned suddenly, stepping far into Aziraphale’s space. The angel backstepped, his back bumping against the thick foliage of a well placed cypress tree as Crowley advanced on him.

“ _Look.”_ Crowley growled, irritation rising like bile in his throat. (Aziraphale stiffened, face red, but Crowley powered through it). “I wasn’t tempting her. You want them to marry and have a blessed little family? Be my guest. But that’s the end of it.” Aziraphale looked up at him, cheeks hot and red like he’d been thoroughly ruffled, mind struggling to keep up with the words that Crowley hissed at him. Finally, a response.

“Well, then” he croaked “I won’t mention it again, dear boy.” His eyes flickered down towards his lips, only briefly before returning to lock in on his gaze. It was soft and expecting, like a stray dog waiting to be turned away. “I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” Crowley groaned, exaggerating the twirl it took to spin out of Aziraphale’s personal bubble. 

“Ohhhfff--- forget it, Aziraphale. It’s hot out. Let’s head inside for a glass of something, yeah?” 

Aziraphale nodded and followed Crowley as he walked back across the garden to the house, their silence only broken by the sound of wind through the cypress trees.

* * *

One thing about humans is that they are very _very_ into communication. From the first time one of them etched a drawing into the wall, to the clay tablet, from parchment to paper, man has always looked for ways to send messages and communicate. So why, after centuries, was it so hard to send mail to the right location? Crowley frowned as he flipped through his mail, sorting the folded and wax sealed letters that were slipped under his chamber door throughout the day into a neat pile. The crests emblazoned upon them were from different families, but all included his as a means of identification. Snake and ring, snake and ring, snake and ring...palle? Well that’s not right. Palle--medicinal balls-- were an old, old symbol of the Medici. Perhaps a letter got lost amidst the shuffle, a bill or inquiry to one of the Medici brothers. It it _was,_ Crowley was in a bit of luck. 

Normally Crowley wouldn’t snoop around people’s correspondence,seeing as he’d hate for anyone to look too closely at who he’s been writing to, but things had slowed to a drip recently. After the first two weeks it was harder to tempt the Medici and guests. The initial party died down, some returned home, while others simply stayed to talk business in peace. Aziraphale thrived in times like these. The past three nights he had managed to secure donations for several churches as well as plans for a new home chapel. Imagine that? At that rate, every wealthy home in Florence would have a room dedicated to God. Meanwhile, Crowley had barely managed to cause some drunken debauchery. There was only so many ways to miracle wine before the guests started to put two and two together--that their cups overflowed but their casks were empty. Push it too far and it puts money right back into the church. But as Crowley took a closer look he saw something else.

“Palle and sword.” he mumbled. 

So it seemed he was not the only entity schmoozing with the Medici. Aziraphale had made his own crest; a combination of the medicinal balls of the Medici, and a single sword that might possibly be crowned in fire. Crowley smirked. “That’s a bit phallic for you, angel.” Crowley muttered. He ran his thumb over the image on the parchment. “Though I don’t recall anything with that many balls...but, if ye be six-winged, and thousand-eyed….” 

Crowley sat on the bed, idling playing with the sealed letter in his hands. He could open it...see what Aziraphale was up to. Not that he would do anything about it. Aziraphale was the one thing Crowley didn’t stand in the way of. He rather enjoyed leaping out of the way to indulge him. But knowing what the angel was writing about would be useful. 

_He’s not writing about you_ , Crowley thought, _it’s too dangerous._

Pen and parchment was too dangerous for them. Most of their signals were prearranged; the double chime of a bell of the beggar by the butcher’s shop, for example. When written letters _did_ arrive at his home they were heavily coded. He would never put his words, his desires in such plain print. They were not one of Aziraphale’s books, in the slow growing collection Crowley _swore_ would be a library one day. These letters were not _for_ or _about_ him. As they shouldn’t. 

Still...this letter was in his hands. 

Well, it would just have to go back. 

Glancing at the clock Crowley noticed how late it had gotten; 3 am. Too late for even the drunkest of guests, and too early for the servants to rise. It was an hour of utter silence, broken only by the bend of trees in the wind. Too silent to be making social visits to an angel. _Perhaps at dawn_ , Crowley contemplated. Then again, the longer he held it the more room for doubt there was. A mutual trust existed between Crowley and Aziraphale, but neither had ever mistakenly held onto a letter for a couple hours. It was best not to test that here; not when they’d be spending the next few decades---if not centuries-- puttering around the same city. Which meant that letter really needed to get back to Aziraphale. 

Moving silently across the hall was simple. Technically, demons only made noise if they wanted to. Crowley naturally crept like a shadow along the wall, weaving between moonlight pouring through the windows until he reached Aziraphale’s door. No soft glow of candlelight could be seen beneath the door, and Crowley bent forward to slip the letter through the crack. But, then, a sound. The soft click of a lock, and a breeze that seemed to come from behind Crowley, pushing the door ajar. 

“Angel?” Crowley whispered. Had Aziraphale been awake? Annoyed by the sound of the demon at his door? No one stood directly behind it. No footsteps retreated in, nor hands groped through the darkness to find him. But the room was far from empty. The curtains had been drawn around the bed, and over the rush of his own pulse Crowley could hear soft breathing. Without thinking, Crowley stepped over the threshold, closing the door quietly. 

“ _Angel?”_ Crowley repeated, this time softer. His reply was silence, and steady breaths. Asleep, perhaps. The room was dark, and Crowley could just make out the faint white of a stack of unopened letters on the desk. _Perfect,_ Crowley thought. Aziraphale never opened his letters before bed. He’d rather read them over his breakfast, leaving his nights free for leisure reading. Crowley would just shuffle this in and that would be that. He walked over to the desk, slipping the rogue letter somewhere 5/7ths down the stack. Nothing too obvious, afterall. Satisfied with his deed, Crowley turned on his heel, ready to return to his room, when something caught his eye.

The curtains on the bed had been pulled back on one side; the side that faced the window, the desk, and currently Crowley. It existed in a pocket of moonlight, a little window into the bed and its resident— a literal sleeping angel. 

Aziraphale lay nestled atop the sheets as though he wanted to keep the bed undisturbed. Of course he could just snap his fingers and make it right, but Aziraphale had that lovely need to keep things as they were--the way humans left them. But that wasn’t what took Crowley’s breath away. It was the _wings_ . Angels, as Crowley struggled to remember, liked to stretch their wings every once and awhile. Aziraphale just so happened to do so in his sleep. They wrapped around him like a blanket, cocooning him in a soft, pure white that matched the fair shade of his hair. They glowed in the moonlight, haloing Aziraphale’s form in a radiant light. Good lord, he was _stunning_ . Crowley stepped forward, mesmerized. How long had it been since he’d seen Aziraphale’s wings? The no-good-very-bad-almost-sacrifice of Isaac? Possibly. Aziraphale learned rather quickly that his wings earned him special treatment amongst humans; and while Gabriel or Michael cherished the looks of awe and fear, Aziraphale would rather slip by unnoticed. But _oh_ , how Crowley _missed_ those wings. How they would flutter and ruffle when Crowley would speak to him--ever vigilant against evil. Aziraphale’s wings always gave him away. A step too close, a word out of turn, and they puffed Aziraphale up like a small bird under the eye of a predator. Not very threatening, but absolutely endearing. 

There were perks of his own wings Crowley did miss, however. Angel wings--true angel wings--were softer than silk. Each feather was fine to the touch, so thin that one could pinch it between their thumb and forefinger and barely feel it. But together, layered by the thousands, they were softer than a cloud. Able to scan a room and lift on the slightest breeze. They made for _excellent_ blankets. In fact, they were so excellent that one needed only their wings to keep them safe and warm, as Crowley observed from the neatly folded pile of Aziraphale’s clothes on the side table. He ignored the prickling feeling of voyeurism under his skin, perfectly fine with the fact that only a strategically placed wing separated him from Aziraphale’s nude form. The angel was covered from knee to chin, tucked beneath his own feathers and none the wiser--sleepily enjoying the swish of feathers. Crowley had long searched to replace that feeling. The closest he ever got was a silk nightshirt--a poor substitute by comparison. He missed the feeling of feathers against his skin, soft and tickling. The longer he looked at Aziraphale the more he longed for it. To curl up beneath his wing, feel that warmth, melt into nothing. 

“ _Mmph”_

Aziraphale made a sound, barely audible above the pulse pounding in Crowley’s ears. _Please, please, don’t wake up_ , Crowley thought. He could explain many things, but not why he was standing and staring at Aziraphale while he slept. Somehow, that seemed to be a thing friends didn’t do. Aziraphale made another sound, a soft whine as though he was calling out. Crowley stepped forward. A nightmare? No. Angels didn’t have those. This felt different. His sleep slackened lips moved wordlessly, and once again Crowley found himself stepping further into Aziraphale’s space to catch any suggestion at all. It was then that his wing moved. 

It didn’t ruffle or twitch like Crowley expected. There was no sign that Aziraphale felt threatened. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The wing lifted up, like one would sleepily lift a blanket to invite a loved one under. Like Aziraphale could sense the want and longing dripping off Crowley, and acted on it as a being of love. Of course, that’s what he was built to do. Love and comfort, and occasionally put the fear of God into someone, but mostly inspire hope. Although, it inspired something else in Crowley in that moment. 

_“Ngk--”_

Crowley lept back, his face burning crimson as he was greeted by the sight of smooth skin. It may have been a heartfelt, innocent gesture, but that lifted wing revealed a lot more than Crowley expected. In the moonlight Aziraphale seemed to glow, draped over the bed in graceful repose his nude form could rival a work of art. Soft, supple curves, so alluring and tempting Crowley wanted to dig his fingers into. Hold onto it all and pull close. He could--actually. That wing was still lifted, still beckoning Crowley to tuck himself beneath it, where he would undoubtedly be cocooned in the soft down until daylight. 

Crowley’s eyes lingered south, heart in his throat as he took in how truly exposed the angel was. He couldn’t...he couldn’t crawl into bed. Nevermind the fact that he was offering in his sleep; how could Aziraphale--who wouldn’t be caught dead underdressed--ever understand waking up with a demon cocooned in his wings, pressed flush against him in all his naked glory. The poor thing would discorporate from embarrassment. As Crowley felt he would too the longer he looked (and the stiffer he became). But, _oh_ , how he wanted to crawl beneath that wing. Feel safe and warm again. Aziraphale’s wings never lied...there was no danger. He wasn’t a danger, despite his unholy alliances. Crowley found it a little flattering. But, it wasn’t meant to be. 

Without a sound Crowley slipped close, his fingers lightly brushing the wing poised over Aziraphale’s head. He nudged it ever so gently down, once again preserving Aziraphale’s modesty. Aziraphale let out a small whine, huffing gently before the wing tucked close to his body. 

_It was a nice thought, Angel,_ Crowley mused, _and an even nicer sight. But this isn’t the right time._ His fingers remained on the wing, carding through the short feathers on the arching bone of it. _One day soon._

Crowley slipped from the room soon after that, his eyes dancing over every inch of skin he wished he could kiss. And as he locked himself away in his own chambers he tried to remember the gesture of a raised wing, pure and innocent, as his hands went promptly down the front of his hose. 

* * *

Crowley thought he’d never tire of lavish meals and never ending wine, but as he sat and the long table in the Medici dining room he felt rather sick. The horrible part about interacting with humans was the need to keep up with appearances. Living amongst them meant taking meals, regular ones. Usually a quick bite here and there was all Crowley desired, except when in the company of Aziraphale. Their meals were about as routine as he liked to get. But humans were different. They _needed_ things. So, while in their company, Crowley needed things too. He needed a hearty breakfast, a heavy dinner, and good wine. He also needed—for appearance sake— to fill a wretched little pot below the bed for the servants to find. It was all rather annoying, and the longer the trip dragged on the more Crowley felt himself readying for a long hibernation. 

Aziraphale looked quite the opposite. Crowley was convinced he took regular meals, and was already accustomed to all the finer intricacies of human life that went beyond the needs of the soul. Crowley felt a bit out of place—well, as out of place as a demon could be. He cut into his roast, hoping to replace the queasiness of anxiety with the more practical general nausea of overeating. It went unnoticed as the Medici conversed.

“Beautiful as the morning sunrise, my Simonetta.” Giuliano said, waving a bit of meat on his fork. “Her loveliness is beyond compare.”

Lorenzo smiled knowingly. “I’m certain her husband agrees.” Giuliano waves the comment off, returning to his meal.

“Their union is a financial one, ours is one of the heart.” He crooned. “Not that it matters.” 

Crowley scowled, sawing at his food. Normally he’d be all over this. Married women, lust, temptation. It was ripe for the picking. But _fucksake_ it was constant. Giuliano spoke of Simonetta every night—- _every night—_ of the last five weeks they had been here. Five weeks of “her hair”, “her eyes”, “her graceful form”. There was only so much patience he had. Not to mention their affection was more of an open secret, known to everyone including her husband, who seemed fine with a Medici man fawning over his wife. But neither of them were here, and Crowley didn’t see the point in pursuing this venture when all he could do was persuade a few dirty letters to make their way into the mail. The talk seemed to ruffle Aziraphale as well, though for slightly different reasons. 

“ _Good heavens, this again.”_ Aziraphale hissed under his breath. “A waste of breath and good dinner conversation.” Crowley snorted, covering it cleverly with a few fake coughs. 

“S’not so bad, Angel. At least we don’t have to ride back in the carriage with him.” Aziraphale let out a haughty sigh in response.

“I should _hope_ not. I can’t bear another moment. What is the point of pining over a married woman? Florence is filled with plenty of young ladies. All exceptionally beautiful. Any one of them would make a fine wife.”

“The man wants what he wants” Crowley shrugged. “You can’t dictate someone’s tastes.” 

“Yes, but it isn’t _right_ .” Aziraphale stressed. “There are rules. Marriage is a covenant with _God_ . And what? She’s pretty and her husband doesn’t mind, so we all encourage this...this...foolishness?” He pushed a bit of potato onto his fork, becoming more aggravated as it crumbled and fell apart on the tines. “I mean _really_. How stupid must one be.” Crowley felt the words grate against his nerves.

“I don’t think it’s stupid. A little naive, maybe. But most humans are like that. Isn’t that why we stick around? To observe and lightly intervene?” Though to be honest he didn’t care about Giuliano de Medici or his crush. Aziraphale’s words cut a little too closely, shedding light on a sore spot he wouldn’t outright admit. He was also a stupid creature pining for something he couldn’t have. And the something he wanted was teetering on a full blown temper tantrum. Aziraphale bristled. 

“Well _yes,_ to a degree. But what am I supposed to do here? Walk straight up to them and go ‘Terribly sorry, I’m the angel Aziraphale, Principality and Guard of the Eastern Gate. Would you be so kind as to keep your prick in your hose?’” Aziraphale huffed. Not a soul seemed to hear him, and Crowley noted how careful and calculated this anger was. Crowley shrugged.

“Wouldn’t hurt to try. There hasn’t been a real visitation in centuries, I’m certain they’d be throwing money at whatever basilica you like after that.” The tone was something to be desired, and Crowley winced as Aziraphale stiffened. He had obviously struck a nerve, and that put Crowley on the back foot. 

“It isn’t all about money and the arts.” Aziraphale said, this time with more force. “It’s about their souls. Their very essence--”

“It’s a crush, angel. Sooner or later he’ll get over it, just _leave it_ \---”

“We’d all _love_ to leave it, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried. “But we _can’t._ That’s not our way!” 

“Our way is whatever way we make it--”

“Not _your_ way. _Our_ way. Us as in…” Aziraphale stopped before he finished, but Crowley had just begun. He set his glass down forcibly, sending dark wine over the rim and down his shaking hand. Behind his tinted glasses his eyes burned amber. 

“As in _angels_ , yes. You made that clear.” Crowley clipped. Hurt flashed across Aziraphale’s face, his anger crumpling into heartbreak. 

“I didn’t...dear boy, I didn’t mean to...”

“You did.” Crowley said. He was willing to let this go. Pour another glass, fake a smile, and let it blow over because he’d rather be drunk than face the fact that deep deep down there would always be that rift between them. But his traitorous tongue would not let him do it without the final say. “S’my fault anyway. Must’ve knocked my head hard when I fell and lost my manners.”

It was a stupid, stupid comment. One he’d throw out without a thought at any other angel. But Aziraphale? This was the first time he felt wretched about it. He used it to wound, and wound it did. Azirphale’s heart wrenched expression turned to anger, thrice as mad as he was before. He got up from the table abruptly, throwing his napkin down onto his unfinished plate. 

“Clearly, we both have.” He spat. “So I won’t embarrass you further with my company.” 

Crowley watched as Aziraphale stormed from the room, too bitter himself to cave in and follow. He wouldn’t. Not this time. He’d let this little hissy fit ride out and they’d be right as rain in the morning. The conversation continued, the Medici none the wiser, though now they could clearly hear and acknowledge Crowley. He asked for more wine. They obliged. Then he asked for some more. Crowley was uncertain how long the evening lasted, but it was long enough for the world to go wobbly beneath his feet. He had overdone it this time, but didn’t want to sober up. The lack of control felt like a punishment he deserved. Every bang and bruise played into the self-flagellation Crowley desired. But the rest of the Medici guests had crawled to bed, and for appearances sake so should he. 

Crowley used the walls as a guide, feeling his way through the dark as his feet struggled to keep up. Unlike his previous skulking, this one was quite noisy. He knocked over a vase, but quickly repaired it. He also tripped on a rug, yelled at a plant, and was tricked by two well placed mirrors before he even reached his wing of the villa. Turning the familiar corner, Crowley clambered down the hall, his need for a soft bed his only driving force. It wasn’t until he groped into the darkness, grasping the handle of a neighboring room, that he stopped in his tracks. Aziraphale’s door. Crowley slumped against it, feeling the traces of angelic grace through the door. That sweet aroma, the warm tingle of the handle. It left a sucking wound in his chest. The guilt came up with his stomach, and Crowley cursed to himself as it splattered all over his shoes. He was really a mess, wasn’t he? Really messed it up this time. Covered in sick, shaking, in need of comfort. Of a wing to tuck under. Perhaps if he crawled, took his original name, Aziraphale might let him stay… Crowley swallowed his pride and turned the handle, opening the door. 

“Aziraphale?”

The room was dark, curtains drawn around the bed. Crowley staggered in, no longer caring is he startled the angel from his sleep. “Aziraphale, M’sorry. I messed up. Please…” he tripped over the edge of a tasseled rug, falling headfirst into the bed curtains with a yelp. They tore down with him, shrouding him in damask silk as he groped his way in the darkness. “Angel? Angel!” Crowley cried, his hands skimming the bed looking for Aziraphale in the mess of silk and downy pillows. Nothing. Crowley slithered out from the darkness of the fabric, into the cool moonlight that bathed the room. The bed was empty. As was the desk. No books, no letters, no delightful little mug half drained of its contents. Aziraphale had left, fled back to Florence under cover of night. A cry rose up in Crowley’s throat, already raw from bile and screaming. He let it out into a pillow, his body wracked with sobs as the last of his dignity finally left him. Clearly, they had both forgotten their manners, but Crowley had forgotten his place. 


	7. Chapter 7

_ Easter Sunday, April 26, Florence, 1478   
_

It had been three years since Crowley last spoke with Aziraphale. Following the argument at the villa, Crowley traveled back to Florence alone. He settled back into his small apartment, his stomach in knots from weeks of overeating and stress. His trunk, already empty, was tossed into a corner angrily, as were the bags he received as parting gifts. None of it mattered. Five weeks, only a few temptations, and a whole lot of frustration. The report was as detailed as it needed to be, outlining the raging success of the Medici holiday and it’s penchant for sinful behavior. And because he felt particularly bitter, Crowley did mention that an angel was driven from the house in anger, never to return, leaving him in charge of the souls of the Medici villa. That tidbit alone would tip the scales in his favor. With a flourish of his hand, and a spark on his fingertip, Crowley’s snake sigil burned into the parchment. With another wave it vanished, leaving only the smell of singed hair in its wake.   


Crowley then undressed, flopped into bed, and woke up a year later.   


That part, at least, was his fault. He didn’t intend to sleep that long, but in true serpentine fashion a good meal would put him out like a candle in a storm. Weeks of indulgence gave way for months of restoration. When he awoke he noticed one of two things. One, that a letter of accommodation from Hell had been left under his door, and two, Aziraphale had not visited once.   


The next two years, in Crowley’s mind, was both their fault. The first time Crowley saw Aziraphale on the street he switched sides, and took a small winding alleyway twenty minutes in the wrong direction until he no longer noticed the faint lingering scent of Aziraphale. The whole city stank of something angelic. Church bells rang incessantly, every nook and cranny of the city packed with some sculpture or relief. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed how cluttered it was getting from his spot across the table from Aziraphale. But there was no lunch that day, nor would there be for quite some time.   


The second time they crossed paths it was Aziraphale’s turn to snub him, dramatically turning on his heel and marching himself straight into the nearest Cathedral as if to drive the point home that Crowley was not welcome. As far as bitchy moves went that was the worst Crowley had seen him. Then again, Crowley was worse. The same traitorous tongue that got him into this mess continued it’s wild streak, and Crowley only worsened the situation by bad mouthing one of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants within earshot. If he remembers correctly, the term “culinary crime” was used. The doors to the cathedral blew shut so fast that damn near every cart-wheel splintered on that street.   


The third time was...the last. Crowley wished he didn’t remember it so well. The crowds. The sullen faces. The funeral procession. Crowley for once did not look out of place, dressed in dark drab colors with a pinched expression as the procession marched past. The family neared, and hushed voices filled the crowd.

“Too soon, poor dear.”

“Florence lost its light.”

Crowley was sad to recognize the faces of the family and assorted friends that marched sadly past. The Vespucci family, there to bury the flower of Florence; the once lovely Simonetta. Across the street Crowley recognized another face, one that pained him much more. Aziraphale, dressed in a mid-tone grey doublet—the darkest shade Crowley had ever seen him in. It seemed even angels-in-mourning could not bring themselves to wear black. It seemed wrong.   


All of this seemed wrong, really. Not being next to Aziraphale. Not standing by his side as a silent observer, mourning in the way only eternal beings could. Instead he faced him like an enemy on the field, separated by the slow current of weeping relatives. Their cause— the spark of this unholy fight—being carried between them, cold and dead. The Vespucci girl was dead.

Had it been just that, just a funeral of a dead girl, perhaps things could have smoothed over. The crowd would pass, and Crowley would cross the street and offer Aziraphale an oak-barrel-aged apology. But no sooner had the thought crossed Crowley’s mind did Giuliano de Medici trudge past, mourning behind the husband and grieving family of Simonetta.His very presence twisted Aziraphale, replacing his mournful expression with the white hot anger that drove this wedge between them. Before the procession could end, Aziraphale was gone. Crowley had returned to his apartment, written a letter of condolence to the Vespucci family, and poured himself a drink. The wine had been a bottle Aziraphale left as his place, and though Crowley thought better of it, he always left a little in the bottle, miracling himself a refill instead of tossing the bottle back and being done with it.

That was how Easter morning, April 26th, 1478, started.   


Of all Sundays, Easter was the holiest--that was a given. Even Crowley resigned himself to a day of rest, letting Heaven and its choir of angels welcome back their sacrificial lamb. He sat by the open window, bottle in hand as he listened to the clang of church bells and the sound of hymns floating on the spring breeze. People traipsed past in their finest clothes. Feasts would be prepared.  _ Florence is risen with Him _ . The thought made Crowley huff, and he swigged the wine straight from the bottle. Sheer will kept it from turning to vinegar, but Crowley had to make the decision to finish it soon. Three years was an awful long time, and the wine would turn long before Aziraphale’s mood. _ No use prolonging it _ , Crowley thought. He raised the bottle to his lips, feeling the weight shift in his palm as wine trickled forward. It barely crossed his lips when a cry came out from the streets.

_ “Murder! Murder!”   
_

Crowley paused, unable to comprehend what he heard. Murder? On Easter Sunday? Satan himself would approve, but Crowley knew no demon bold enough to crawl out of hiding on Easter. But the cry rose once again, higher and more frantic in pitch.

“ _ Murder! Murder in the church! _ ”

Crowley leaned out the window, joined by a throng of citizens who peeked out in morbid curiosity. The city stuttered, all eyes on the man sprinting down the cobblestone street in fright. Just a man in his Sunday best, disheveled from running, but his voice carried over the rooftops of Florence as he broke the news.

_ “Lorenzo and Giuliano de Medici stabbed in the cathedral! Send help!”   
_

Behind the man chaos ensued. Hundreds of people followed on his heels, fleeing the church in an unholy mass exodus. They sprinted down side alleys and up main streets, stumbling over their skirts and scooping up children, shouting the same words as the first crier: murder, Medici, slain. Blood spilt on the holiest day of the year, in a sacred place, where Aziraphale would be.   


Crowley was on the street in a heartbeat, weaving his way through the raging countercurrent of worshippers. Yet as the church drew near the crowd became denser, and more frantic. The spaces between them grew slimmer, until Crowley had no choice but to slam shoulders with each person he passed. It would bruise deep, but Crowley pressed on. One misstep and he would be under the heel of the mob, trampled and discorporated. He hoped the same hadn’t already happened to Aziraphale. The church bells clanged on, only adding to the deafening screams and shouts that filled the streets. In the commotion, Crowley recognized his own voice screaming with them.   


“Aziraphale! Aziraphale!”

It ripped from his throat, raw and full of fear. He didn’t see him. No flash of white in the crowd, no sweet smell of honey he could track down for miles. It was all sweat and adrenaline, and a flurry of contorted faces. Babies crying, men shouting, women calling for each other as they fled toward their homes. Crowley’s heart felt as though it were caught in a vice, squeezed tighter with every second he couldn’t locate Aziraphale. How hard could it be to spot him, even in this riot? That halo of soft curls, and the pristine cream of his doublet. Crowley tried not to think of that doublet riddled with muddy footprints, trampled by a thousand boots as the chaos unfolded.   


“Aziraphale! Aziraphale!”

Crowley sensed the end of the crowd, the last of the worshippers darting past him as he ran through the empty piazza towards the church. Mournful cries poured from the open doors, piercing Crowley to his core. His feet slowed to a stop as common sense came back to him. He couldn’t barge into this church. If what happened indeed happened, he would be under intense scrutiny. If God didn’t obliterate him as he crossed the threshold, Michael would. The stench of him would be linked with this tragedy, and Crowley’s days would be numbered. But, how could he not cross it? Not when there was the chance that Aziraphale was caught by a blade, or thrown aside by the crowd. Though his pace slowed from a sprint, Crowley did not stop. He barrelled towards the open mouth of the church, fists clenched in anticipation of--- of---

“Aziraphale?’

A figure stepped out of the darkness of the nave, harsh sunlight crossing its figure and bringing Crowley to a full stop. No wonder Crowley couldn’t spot him in the crowd.  _ Everything was red.  _ The cream doublet Aziraphale favored was stained crimson, so dark and deep that it looked soaked to the skin. It splattered over the hose that hugged his calf, and dyed his shoes completely. His face, dumbstruck and vacant, was streaked in blood, the white of his hair mottled into red clumps where it had been grabbed at feebly. Someone had clung to him for life and lost. The blood might as well have been his, because from where Crowley was standing, Aziraphale was dead on his feet.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley said, this time softer so as not to startle him. Aziraphale looked up, tear tracks clearing the blood from his cheeks.   


“ _ Crowley.” _ Aziraphale croaked. It barely made a sound, as though Aziraphale had been screaming longer than Crowley had. “ _ He’s…”   
_

From behind Aziraphale the mourning continued, the Medicis gathered around a crumpled body. Crowley could see it, just barely, from the door. It was Giuliano. Blood stained the stone floor around him, his garments dark and sticky with it. His features were hidden by a veil of crimson, and Crowley felt his stomach turn.   


“What of Lorenzo?” Crowley asked, his eyes full blown amber and searching. “Where is he?” Aziraphale sucked in a shaky breath.   


“The sacristy...he...he’s barricaded within…” Aziraphale gestured feebly. The situation was dire, but salvageable. If Lorenzo de Medici lived, Florence would survive. This was an attempted dethroning of the Medici, and someone was to blame. It was only a matter of who.   


“Crowley, I...I need to report this. I need to tell Gabriel, or-or Michael that they might not survive—“ Aziraphale stammered, his mind working out his thoughts aloud. “Oh, I’ve  _ failed _ , I’ve let this happen. How could I not see it—-“

“Aziraphale.” Crowley said, he placed a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. “Go to them  _ right now.  _ Report everything.  _ Everything _ . Any sight, any sound. A face you did not recognize. Even a murmur you thought was false.” Aziraphale nodded. He looked so very pale.

“Yes, yes I’ll go. I’ll change and I’ll—“

“No. Go as you are. Let them see what these men did in Her house.” Crowley said sternly. This was not the work of Hell, but the work of man, and if Aziraphale was to be put in charge of this city then they will see what man had brought upon him. Aziraphale stuttered in feeble protest. “I mean it, Aziraphale. Do not fall on your sword twice.” Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath.

“You’re ri—- I. I’ll leave immediately.” Aziraphale said. He moved, breaking contact with Crowley’s outstretched hand. “I have to tell them.” There was urgency in his stride, and Crowley watched as Aziraphale turned the corner and ascended a long narrow staircase, turning onto a landing they both knew had no door. 

* * *

“Murderer! Murderer!”

It didn’t take Crowley long to piece together the plot, as did the mob that descended upon Florence. Conspirators were being named. The Pazzi family has been discovered. A jealous family, one of many, gunning for the power of the Medici. The men they apprehended spewed names as they were dragged through the streets. Some suggested that the Pope himself had encouraged the assassination. In front of the Palazzo della Signoria a mob formed, their cries of vengeance setting the air alight. Nothing felt quite like hell on earth than a mob in motion. It ravaged Florence like hellfire, gutting it. With blood split in the church, the mob had no qualms returning the violence. Crowley saw this as two Pazzi conspirators were thrown from the open window of the building, where the short length of rope around their necks ended their lives.   


Jacopo Pazzi, patriarch of the family, was apprehended while fleeing Florence, and thrown from the same window to rot alongside his kin. Highborn and noble men were snagged in suspicion, flogged and killed. Lorenzo de Medici emerged from the sacristy and called for mercy. But it was beyond his control.Giuliano was carried from the church, his body in tatters. And Crowley could do little more than watch as the city unfurled into chaos. No demonic miracle could intervene without question. He would, undoubtedly, receive commendation for this. Another notch in his belt, residual kudos for his original sin. One more horrific act thought up by man, and carried out by man, but shouldered by Crowley. He had, of course, sparked this thought in them. Taught them to think. Opened the door to the gruesome spectacle called mankind.   


As the crowd dispersed Crowley slinked back to his residence, for once fearful to be out and about on a Sunday. For this Sunday, in the eyes of Heaven and Hell, could not be overlooked. Easter Sunday, 1478, felt like the resurrection of Crawley the snake—released in a garden unattended with an angel, and the whole thing went sideways.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short angsty chapter, but I ended up splitting things up where it felt right to end. Next chapter, Crowley and Aziraphale properly reunite.


	8. Chapter 8

Darkness slipped over Florence that night, mercifully, without protest. The unrest in the streets gave way to eerie silence, bringing with it an unseasonable chill. Crowley roused from his spot wedged beneath the bed as the unholy terror that has seized him finally passed. He could not for the life of him remember the last time he hid like that. The Ark? Perhaps. Curled up in a ball below deck, an angry sea slamming against the hull, trying his hardest to keep a handful of frightened stowaways hidden beneath a bed of hay. But that had been direct disobedience; the refusal to step aside and watch the world drown because She wanted to start over--and Crowley wouldn’t let Her. This...this was different. There was too little wiggle room, no “aha” angle that would keep Satan happy. This was simply what men did.   


Seeing as it had been several hours without being smited, Crowley felt safe enough to close the small window of his chambers, blocking out the flickering sea of candles that filled every window. He would shutter-in for the night and lay low. Perhaps take a little detour out of Florence until the city properly grieved the Medici. Naples would be nice this time of year...warm and sunny...not too hot--

“Crowley?”

There was one thing Crowley did not need right now, and that was to be startled. He flinched, not wanting to let out a yelp and give himself away. Whirling around on one heel, Crowley steeled his face and readied himself to deal with whoever---

“Aziraphale,” Well, of course it was. But not how Crowley expected him. After parting in the square he had half expected their meetings to become scarce. To let this night, and a couple more, go past before either attempted to hint at a rendezvous. It wasn’t like Aziraphale to vary from their careful routine, and definitely out of sorts for him to summon himself directly into Crowley’s home. The again, little of the ordeal Aziraphale encountered was ordinary--and perhaps that’s why he felt the need to come straight here. Crowley just hoped it wasn’t terrible, terrible news.   


“Terrible, terrible news.” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands in front of him. He was just as Crowley left him; his fine clothing soaked with blood, hair a mess, wearing an expression of grief so deep and painful that it shattered Crowley’s heart to see it. Though hours had passed here on Earth, time worked a little differently in Heaven. Aziraphale might have spent hours discussing the incident, or possibly a few minutes. All that was certain was that the blood on his hands was still fresh, and it smeared with the wringing of his fingers.   


A spark of panic shot through Crowley, and for the first time he found himself taking a small step back from the angel, his thoughts racing.  _ You daft fool, they’d know you were hiding from Michael or Gabriel, _ Crowley thought,  _ they’d send someone you’d run directly towards _ . And how couldn’t he? He’d follow Aziraphale just about anywhere, even if it meant his own destruction. Crowley’s mouth went dry, unable to even form the words to ask if he should kneel.   


The action didn’t go unnoticed. Aziraphale stepped back himself, as if offering a silent reassurance that this was not the end, but his nervous hands continued to fidget.   


“I’m not-- this isn’t--” Aziraphale started, the idea of it sticking in his throat. “Oh…” . He placed a hand flat on his chest, offering a silent sign of peace. Crowley felt the knot in his stomach loosen. Aziraphale did not take those gestures lightly, and definitely not towards a demon. Carefully, Crowley stepped back towards Aziraphale, this time closing the distance between them. If this was a bluff, Aziraphale would have to look him in the eye as he did it. Chest to chest, Crowley stared down at Aziraphale, his eyes full blown amber and searching for any hint of betrayal. Aziraphale stared back, the usual twinkle in his eyes replaced with blubbering tears. He crumpled.

“ _ Crowley, it’s a mess. _ ”   


Crowley’s hands shot to Aziraphale’s shoulders, squeezing tight as grief overtook him. He crumpled like a leaf as the full weight of the day came crashing down on him. He slumped into Crowley’s grasp, barely holding himself up as to not pitch forward and smear Medici blood onto Crowley’s black doublet. The tears came freely, accompanied by shaking sobs and wails as Aziraphale tried his best to explain the atrocity.   


“We were in the church…” Aziraphale said, his eyes focused on the third button of Crowley’s doublet. “They waited until the sacrament, and then they began. I barely saw the blade until it caught the light on the upswing and then---” Aziraphale stumbled forward, slamming hard into Crowley’s chest. The force of it almost knocked them to the floor, despite Crowley planting his feet. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale to support him, and to his dismay he could feel how soaked through with blood the angel was. The front of his doublet dampened with an unseen stain, and mingled with the hot cloud of Aziraphale’s breath.   


“We locked Lorenzo in the sacristy, but Giuliano…”

The rest was just a mournful wail. He keened it into Crowley’s chest, balling his fists in the material as if he were hanging on for dear life. Crowley didn’t need to ask much else. He knew Aziraphale like the back of his hand. The poor thing was probably on his knees, cradling Giuliano to his chest, pleading with God to grant him this one thing--this one miraculous, gracious thing. Spare the boy, for his family’s sake. Crowley knew Aziraphale so well that he could taste the guilt on his tongue as the man in his arms went cold; it was thick like wax, cracking and crumbling as the last of his pleas dribbled out. Crowley exhaled a trembling breath, one hand reaching to pat the blood spattered curls atop Aziraphale’s head.   


“Do they blame you?” he whispered. From his spot buried in Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale shook his head. No. “And me? Do they know I’m here?” Crowley’s heart faltered in the second it took Aziraphale respond. Another No. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, and pulled Aziraphale tighter. Their end would come, but not today. Today was just a dark mark on their collective conscience they hoped to scrub out. And perhaps that’s why Crowley felt so bold as to bury his face into the mess of curls atop Aziraphale’s head, confident that the two of them would brush this tenderness aside by morning.   


“Angel, it’s not your fault.” he mumbled. Aziraphale’s sweet honey scent mixed with blood, but he couldn’t pull away. “There’s no rhyme or reason to man. Even the most pious are unpredictable.” Beneath him Aziraphale’s breath steadied, and the two remained like that until the throes of his grief had passed. Somewhere within his tight grip Aziraphale squirmed, his senses (and reserves) returning to him. Crowley relaxed his hands and let him break away.   


“I’m sorry, Crowley that was terribly---” Aziraphale sniffled, interrupted by a hiccup of grief that he swallowed without hesitation. “I should be better at this.” Crowley offered a half smile in place of platitudes. Aziraphale didn’t need to get better, humanity did. It was not the job of an angel to clean up after man. Nor was it Aziraphale’s job to stick his divine fingers into every muddy pie of conspiracy, and hope it turned to milk and honey. Still, the idea of being better stuck in his throat. Deep down, didn’t they all want that?

“Nonsense.” Crowley said, his voice hoarse. “You just need to freshen up a bit.” Aziraphale looked down, his face sickly pale at the sight of deep crimson. He held his arms out helplessly, like a child who fell into a muddy pit and ruined their Sunday best.   


“I suppose I should. I should go and change.” he muttered. Crowley felt his stomach twist as another terrible idea pushed its way up from his gut. Another thing they’d forget by morning.

“I can draw you a bath, if you’d like.” Crowley offered. “It’s a big tub, brand new. Won it in an odd bet.” He watched as Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, his telltale movement to weigh his options. “That pious little wash bucket at your place won’t really get the job done. You’ll be wringing yourself out for hours. Just a quick soak here and you’ll be right as rain.”   


The mental math it would take to fill that washbucket was written all over Aziraphale’s face, and the longer he remained here on Earth the stickier the blood became. Crowley didn’t push it, he just let the offer hang as Aziraphale’s hands toyed with the heavy hem of his doublet.

“I’ve nothing to change into.”

“I’m sure I can scrounge up a dressing gown in your color.” Crowley said, he looked over the angel’s bloody garb, brow furrowed. “I can get that cleaned out too. Like it was never there.” Aziraphale sighed.

“We both know it will be.”

Crowley withdrew, not wanting to offend Aziraphale. The truth was, anything could be washed out. Blood, mud, sweat, tears, even sin. Everything they touched has the ability to dissolve and never return. The clothing would be pristine. The real stain was on Aziraphale’s heart. That, not even She could scrub out. Crowley nodded.

“Yes. We will. And that will be enough.”

Aziraphale nodded, and his hands stopped their fiddling.   


“I think I will take that bath, if you don’t mind.”   


“Not at all, angel."

Crowley clapped his hands together, determined to bring a little light to the situation. He had, of course, just conjured a bathtub that had  _ not _ been there previously, into a little private room that would  _ not  _ be there tomorrow. But today, Aziraphale would find that it was a deep marble tub, filled with steaming water and scented oils. A cake of soap, brand new, would be waiting, as well as his softest bath linen. Hung up behind the door would be a simple white cotton shift, ready and waiting to be slipped on after the bath.   


“Right! All’s ready when you are, angel.” Crowley said, bringing a little life back into his voice. “Just pop off the soiled silks and I’ll get to work while you scrub down.” Crowley, however, had not expected Aziraphale to go stiff as a board, face flushed.   


“H-here?” His fingers tugged at the gold buttons of his doublet uneasily.   


Crowley coughed to keep himself from crumpling with embarrassment. He’d never meant it like that, just that he would clean the--oh that’s not the point. The point was that Aziraphale was standing there awkwardly, hands tugging at his garments as though he expected Crowley to confirm that he should disrobe right there, and with each second ticking past Crowley was afraid he’d take it as a yes.

“No! No, uh, not here  _ obviously.” _ Crowley gushed. “Right through that door there. Everything’s set up nicely.” Aziraphale let out a rush of shaky, breathy laughter in relief.   


“Oh.  _ Oh, obviously.”  _ He said, smoothing his hands over the dark sticky front of his doublet. “Silly me, I don’t...uh, just a funny mix up. This isn’t the Roman bath or anything—-“ his eyes darted to Crowley’s lips, and Crowley tried to suppress a groan as the memory of steam and sweat returned from a dream he thought he left in Tuscany.   


“No, no it’s just my...tub. Just...uh…” he motioned weekly to the door. Aziraphale followed with his eyes.   


“Just through there. Right. Back in a snap.” Aziraphale said. He stepped carefully across the flat, opening a door that welcomed him with a rush of steam. Immediately his shoulders relaxed, chin tilted up to greet the fragrant cloud that wafted from the small wash room. He looked over his shoulder, giving Crowley a shy and subtle smile. “Thank you, Crowley.”

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley mumbled.

The door clicked shut, and Crowley waited patiently as the sound of rustling fabric began. This was fine. This was more than fine. Crowley had begun to suspect that this was right as rain, and the pounding in his chest was something a quick nip of something would clear right up. A few moments later the door opened a crack, and a pale arm placed a bloody bundle outside the door. Crowley did not think about taking that arm and kissing up it. Not a thought of the expanses of unclothed skin behind the door crossed his mind. Instead he waited, drink in hand, until every article of clothing was set out for him to clean.

Well, perhaps clean wasn’t the right word. Neither was fix, to be honest. All that was certain is that only a miracle could get bloodstains or of cream colored silk—a skill Crowley currently possessed. And anything thorough was worth doing to distract him from the gentle sighs and lapping water coming from the other side of the door.   


Crowley laid out the garments flat on the floor, and sat cross legged before them. Not a drop should be left to haunt Aziraphale, so he had to be thorough. Taking on finger, Crowley pressed it to the collar of the doublet and carefully dragged it downward. As he did so, a fresh blooming trail of creamy silk was left in his wake. The blood shifted, shimmering under the pad of his finger and vanishing to who knows where. All that mattered was that it wasn’t here. He repeated the motion on every piece of clothing, ridding them of their stains.   


He also provided a little upkeep. Droopy buttons were rethreaded tight. Worn spots became shiny and new. Holes in lace were mended and discoloration from washing corrected. Soles patched. By the end of it the garments looked like new. And why shouldn’t they? As much as Aziraphale wore things until only the love in the stitches kept him clothed, this outfit deserved to be reborn. It would not be the outfit that Giuliano de Medici expired on, no, that outfit was worn and over seventy years old. This was something new entirely, and in a style he knew would flatter Aziraphale very well. It deserved a new start, for both their sake.

It was then that Crowley heard the water in the tub slosh loudly; a signal that Aziraphale was drying off beyond the door. Crowley snapped, folding the newly repaired clothing into a neat pile. The same motion brought about a dressing gown of soft ivory, with pale gold scalloping on the cuffs and neckline. A second snap and Crowley was dressed down into his dressing gown, not wanting Aziraphale to feel awkward or overexposed. They were in private, of course, safely tucked away in Crowley’s chambers with a bed and a couple of bottles of wine between them (though those two ingredients would never mix). Crowley poured two drinks for safe measure.   


The door clicked open, more steam escaping as Aziraphale exited. The blood had been washed away, leaving his skin scrubbed delightfully pink. His soft blonde curls were ruffled and damp, obviously given a vigorous rub with the bath linen. They stuck out at all angles, bobbing with each step Aziraphale took into the room. But what really caught Crowley off guard was the shift—that long, white linen garment that  _ should _ have covered Aziraphale neck to ankle. Instead it clung to his damp body, sticking to the skin and wrapping around his form like that of an old Roman deity. Crowley’s gaze lingered down his body, feeling the fresh spark of heat in his gut with every soft curve. It wasn’t like his dream. No this was real. Real damp skin plastered in real damp linen, it’s opaqueness compromised as Crowley’s gaze dragged down to the space between Aziraphale’s legs. Hands; hands twisting and bunching the fabric there to preserve his modesty.   


“Crowley, dear—“ Crowley snapped from his daze, spilling a measure of wine from the glass in each hand. “Is that my gown?”

“Y-Yes. Sorry I have wine or I’d…” he motioned to the neatly folded robe, pristine and perfect. “It’s a red I don’t want to ruin it.” Aziraphale chuckled and slipped into the robe. Crowley felt relieved as it was cinched closed, removing any temptation the angel had undoubtedly cast upon him.   


“Here, let me.” Aziraphale said. He grabbed a napkin and quickly dabbed at the tiny red wine tracks that dribbled down Crowley’s hands, leaving the demon to think on what a light, delicate touch he had. He watched, lips apart in silent awe, as each drop was lifted from his skin until it was all smooth and pale. “That’s better.”   


The napkin was placed aside tenderly, and Crowley cleared his throat anxiously as he handed off the newly clean cup to Aziraphale.

“Good bath, then?”

“Divine.” Aziraphale replied. He sighed into his cup as if remembering the moment he slipped into the bath. “It’s been quite some time since I had a soak like that.” His brow furrowed. “Tuscany...probably.” Crowley took a long swig of his drink. Standing here now, Tuscany felt like last week, making the last three years of silence even more wasteful. Aziraphale rolled the cup between his palms.   


“I have to apologize, Crowley, truly. My behavior was unbecoming. I let something foolish blind me…” he paused, no doubt thinking of Giuliano and Simonetta, twin lovers now in eternal sleep. “It didn’t really matter, but I let it get the better of me.” Crowley hummed.

“S’not entirely your fault, angel. Our sides like to see things in black and white, but you and I know things down here are gray. Very bleak, and very gray.” Aziraphale mumbled an agreement under his breath, unable to tear his eyes away from his cup. Crowley didn’t mind. The last thing he needed were those soulful eyes picking him apart. “Besides, I owe you one too.” Aziraphale looked up, blue eyes brimming with tears—the bastard.

“Oh?”

“I didn’t mean what I said.” Crowley said, his gaze taking its turn to swan dive into his cup. “About my fall...my manners…that bitterness was not for you. You just happened to be closest one”  _ One _ being angels, but Crowley couldn’t get the word out. Even gifted with a persuasive tongue, Crowley could not admit that there was only one angel in the whole world who would be right beside him. Aziraphale straightened up, his chest puffed with some small swell of affection. Purely platonic, of course. Crowley knew better than to expect more.

“Bitterness aside, I hope I am...for both our sakes”   


Aziraphale held out his glass as if awaiting a salute. Crowley smiled, and held his up to meet it.   


“Salutaria.” Aziraphale said. “We leave it in Tuscany.”

“Salutaria.” Crowley replied. “Along with my appetite.”

“Oh, do stop!” Aziraphale exclaimed, giggling into his drink. “The food was marvelous. We feasted like kings.” Crowley downed his glass, and waved a finger to refill it.

“That’s precisely my point. It’s too rich. I was so stuffed I slept for a year when I got home.”   


“So that’s where you sulked off to. Here I thought you were doing a marvelous job at spiteing me.” Crowley leaned against the table, the black silk of his dressing gown swishing around him effortlessly.   


“Angel, in all the time we’ve known each other, how many times have I done a marvelous job at  _ anything?” _

Aziraphale took a long sip of his drink, his eyes mischievous and sparkling.   


“Well don’t choke rushing to answer—-“

“I’m not! Oh, silly thing, you.” Crowley scrunched his nose, willing Aziraphale’s glass to top itself off. “Your generosity is a marvel.”   


“It floweth over like a cask.” Crowley laughed “Ready to fill glasses with damnable delight. Or divine drunkenness in your case.” The two laughed heartily, feeling once again like not a moment had passed between their last meeting. Though this time their window was much smaller, the wine poured freely as they recounted their time apart. Easter Sunday slipped away, and a new Monday rolled in under dark cover of night.   


“Good heavens, it’s three in the morning.” Aziraphale noted, fishing around the desk for a clean sheet of paper to write on. “And I was going to show you how the chapel will look—“

“You still can, Angel, if you want.”   


“Nonsense, it’s late! And tomorrow there’s much to do there’s—-“ the joy left Aziraphale’s voice. “Well. The funeral.” His shoulders slumped sadly, tears springing once again to his eyes. “I’ll have to attend, of course, and…” Aziraphale got up abruptly, “Oh, I shouldn’t have stayed. How could I just sit here and drink while that poor family mourned. I should head back.”

“Head back?” Crowley said. “Aziraphale the sun comes up in two hours, what’s the point? Just stay here.”

“I  _ can’t,  _ Crowley, I’m sorry but I should be out there—“

“There is nothing for you to  _ do _ , Angel, really. No miracles, no intervention. Nothing until the ceremony begins like every soul we see pass.” Crowley said, trying desperately to explain as Aziraphale frantically worked the knot of his gown open, letting it fall from his shoulders to the floor. The linen shift beneath it hung loose now, but Crowley felt his cheeks burn hot as he watched Aziraphale walk about in it, afraid that he might forget himself and strip completely to change into his clean set of clothes.   


“I could be there for  _ support _ —-“

“They have it.”

“Comfort—“

“They have that too. Aziraphale, please. Let Florence mourn. Let yourself mourn.” Crowley set aside the bottle in his hand and leaned forward in his chair. “I’m certain the last thing the Medici family needs is for one of their patrons to appear near-naked in their home in the dead of night, hm?” Aziraphale looked down, suddenly aware of the thin material that spared him his decency, cheeks turning a hot red.   


“Oh good lord, I—“ he scrambled back into his dressing gown. “I really should calm down. Go home and get some rest before I...well, I’ve embarrassed myself enough.”   


Crowley ought not to mention he saw the whole kit and caboodle in Tuscany, when a nude sleeping angel lifted his wing, especially seeing how flustered Aziraphale became over being seen in his long shirt. Still, Aziraphale was a panicked and unpredictable angel, and Crowley was concerned.   


“Nothing to be embarrassed about. But, honestly Aziraphale, stay here. It’s only another few hours until the sun rises.” Crowley said. “I’ll take the chair, and you can lay out on the bed.”   


Aziraphale tightened the knot on his dressing gown. “It’s too risky. What if someone checks on me before morning prayer? I need to be in my bed, in my own flat.”

“Then I’ll come with you. S’not like I haven’t slept over before—by accident but, all the same.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “And risk having Gabriel or Michael finding you curled up in my chair? They’d destroy you— all of you—without even a whisper to Hell.”   


“I really don’t think you should be alone, Angel.” Crowley said. It cracked his voice, causing Aziraphale to stop his incessant fussing and look up.

“What choice do we have?”

There was...an idea. It was a fairly flimsy one, like the kind thought up by a child who understood neither time nor space. But it was exactly that type of idea that made Crowley a different kind of demon. One who made things work.

“Get on the bed.”

“ _ What?” _

Crowley waved his hands as if to dispel the sexual implications of his request. “It’s not that obvious, just get on the right side and lay as you would at home.” Aziraphale obliged, slipping under the gray sheets of the bed, tucking one hand beneath the down pillow as he curled up.   


“Good, ok, good.” Crowley said, ignoring the skeptical looks and slipping onto the left side of the bed. He faced Aziraphale, focusing on the space around him. The way the candlelight bent around his head in a soft halo. The rise and fall of his chest. The way the sheets ripples between them, turning from gray to black and then gradually up to beige. Behind Aziraphale the world shimmered, the dark blacks and grays replaced with light blues and tans. The candlelight bounced off books and drew long shadows along art covered walls. It looked like—it  _ was—- _ Aziraphale’s flat. Everywhere except for the center of the bed, where Crowley’s existence oozed through.   


“Take a look around.” Crowley said. Aziraphale sat up, watching as Crowley and his half of the flat flickered out of existence as he looked down upon the bed. Yet as he eased back into the pillows, Crowley returned. It was as though he was hidden under a blanket of reality, lifting the fabric of it to peek through.   


“Is this really my place?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley nodded. His long fingers traced shapes in the sheets.   


“All except the bed. That’s mine, and it’s a little...in between.” Crowley said with a knowing smile. “Come now. Rest up.” Aziraphale settled into the pillows, eyes drifting shut.   


A small mumble of goodnight was passed between them before silence took over. Aziraphale was the first to drift off, his worried expression slackening into blissful sleep. No matter how bad the day, angels didn’t get nightmares. He was probably far away right now, sampling the newest wines or attending a party. His lips twitched, curving up as though someone told him a delightful joke. His breathing hitched, as though taken by a lovely surprise. All the while Crowley kept watch, waiting for his own inevitable sleep to come and rob him of this angelic prize. As his own eyes began to close, Crowley reached across the empty chasm of bed, brushing a stray eyelash from Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Sweet dreams, angel.”

And as his vision grew dark, and his hand went limp, Crowley thought he heard the sound of wings. Thought he felt them cocoon them both, and tickle him like the stray eyelash he brushed away. And truly thought he heard a reply to his whispers.

“ _ Oh, Crowley.” _

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Good Omens fic and I'm very excited to share it! All of my art history knowledge is now good for something. If you like what you see, please comment and let me know. More Good Omens content is on my tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy and my twitter @bifrostbite. Thank you!


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